


a little bit lost

by shortbread



Series: a little bit lost, a little bit found [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Coffee, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Letters, M/M, Newt Scamander's parents - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV Newt Scamander, POV Original Percival Graves, Percival Graves's parents, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 85,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortbread/pseuds/shortbread
Summary: Soulmate.In the hours between nothing and sunshine under the curtains, the word has found its way into Graves’ brain.Now that the light has returned, Graves can take a look at his mark. He doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking about its meaning, about someone being somewhere for him. He does it anyway.---Being someone who had gotten along with most people, but had never had a best friend, he had found the idea of a soulmate both abstract and thrilling. Soulmates, like hippogriffs, were true to their partners. Finding the match to one's mark meant having a companion for the rest of one's days. To Newt, that sounds fantastic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)  
> this is our first fanfic in the fandom and we're very excited about posting.  
> We'll update on Sundays: the first three chapters will be uploaded weekly, so you get an idea of the fic, and after that we'll switch to updating every other week. The next chapter will come online on June 25th.  
> We hope you like reading the fic as much as we like plotting and writing it.  
> Kudos and comments are, of course, much appreciated.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

 

**Chapter 1**

 

It might be mid-morning, might be afternoon already. He'd spent a long time dozing somewhere between reality and dreams, always hoping to wake up to something better than this nightmare. It's not only the hours, he isn't even sure about the days anymore. In the beginning, he'd counted how often Grindelwald came to the little spare room, but then there were too many visits, multiple in span of hours, and he'd lost track of time. The thought that this might have been going on for months is sickening. Through the gap between curtains and floor, Graves can see glimpses of sunshine. It looks inviting and friendly, like Graves could crawl there, let it shine on his face. He knows he can't, though. It's a trick, everything is.  
Grindelwald might come back soon, and if he's in a bad mood, he'll take every opportunity he gets to punish Graves. It's best not to move too much, especially not with this curse on him. There is a headache coming.  
And while he's lying here, Grindelwald is walking through the city with Graves's body. Who does he talk to, where does he go, which papers does he sign in Graves's name? New York could change, the wizarding world in the US could go down, and Graves wouldn't know. He has to rely on Grindelwald coming back to him, had to count on staying useful. Graves wants to suffer in peace, thoughts switched off. The constant stream of ideas that don't help in any way, the ongoing reminder of his helplessness makes him question his whole self, and maybe he is slowly going insane. He'd always taken pride in having a strong character, but now Grindelwald is wearing it down.

Being under the imperius curse is not the worst part, neither is the fact that Grindelwald walks around as a free man with Graves’ face, sits in Graves’ office, probably manipulating MACUSA from within. The worst is how easy it all seems to be for Grindelwald. The fact that he was able to disarm and paralyse Graves on his doorstep, and that he made Graves a prisoner in his own home is so humiliating it hurts. It’s a crime Graves should read files on, not something that he should allow to happen to himself. But it did happen, and now he is lying here, on the hard floor of his spare room, still staring at the part of the floor that is probably warm by now, the sun shining on it. The boxes full of books that Graves used to store in here are gone, somewhere outside, where Graves can’t read them. There are walls, there’s a window through which Graves could have a fantastic view over the Hudson. No paintings on the walls, no damage in the wallpaper that Graves could fix his gaze upon. He can’t concentrate on any interior because there is none. There is no way he can keep his thoughts anchored in reality, they always keep drifting off. In his sleep, if he can call it that, he often mixes memories with recent events, sees Grindelwald’s face in them or hears his voice. He wakes up sweating and confused more often than not, and then there’s nothing that tells him where he is except for the curtains and the window hiding behind them.  
He can’t move his legs, thanks to Grindelwald’s Leg-Locker curse. He sometimes fantasises about stretching them out, but they are permanently pulled towards his chest, stuck in the position they had been in when Grindelwald had cursed him. Graves would never tell Grindelwald, but he is grateful that he can still move his arms. It gives him the possibility to change positions, to sit up against the wall, back bent. He’d never make it to the door, though. And even if he did, what use would it be to sit in front of a locked door? It would only anger Grindelwald. Graves knows he’s balancing on a fine line, especially every time he can’t hold his tongue, but he thinks himself at least somewhat safe because Grindelwald needs him alive: the polyjuice-potion he drinks to support the Human Transfiguration doesn’t work if the victim is dead, and Grindelwald might even want to use Graves as a hostage for negotiations with MACUSA. Would they value the life of a single auror so much that they’d agree on whatever Grindelwald’s conditions might be? What would Graves do, were he in their role? A life against that of many, probably millions—how would he choose? Picquery would have the last word, of course. They had always been on good terms, so maybe she’d—but then again, as the President she’d have to think about more than just Percival.  
He closes his eyes for a moment, forces himself to breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. This is part of Grindelwald’s plan. He wants Graves to panic, wants him to lose his mind, wants him to go mad. Graves knows he mustn’t give in. As difficult as it seems, he must try to stay calm. Breathing in, breathing out. He collects spit in his mouth, swallows it, licks his lips. He can hold on to good thoughts just a little longer. His team will find him soon, he knows it. He just has to be patient. He mustn’t panic.

Graves gathers the strength he has in his arms to pull himself in an upward position. His back hurts, but he knows that frequent change is better than lying on the floor for days and nights on end. He lets himself slump against the wall, has his hands on either side of the body to prevent himself from falling over. He slowly tilts his head back—the ceiling looks just like it did yesterday or the day before—then bows it as much as he can. He tries to use his feet to stabilise so he can stretch his left arm, flex his fingers. It’s almost routine by now, putting the left palm back to the floor and lifting his right arm as high as he can reach. Bringing it back down, slowly. That’s when he sees it, a black pattern on his arm. He loses the tension in his muscles, his hand falls to the floor and it hurts. Graves tries to breathe again, the way he did earlier, but his lungs feel constricted. Calm, he tells himself, you need to stay calm. He forces himself to lift his right arm.  
What looked like a large black spot turns out to be a wampus cat. It is big, the head almost at Graves’ wrist, its tail millimetres away from reaching the crook of the elbow. His first thought is that everything the wampus stands for—strength, freedom, being a warrior by nature—is contrary to his current state. Having such an animal permanently printed on his skin seems just like another one of Grindelwald's ways to humiliate him further, reminds Graves of the fact that he is a prisoner. Did Grindelwald mark him while he was asleep? Is it some kind of dark mark, forever brandishing Graves as victim of the dark arts? But if that is the mark's purpose, the wampus doesn't make sense. And wouldn't it give Grindelwald more pleasure to do something to Graves while he's awake and conscious? Something about this doesn't make sense. He is an auror, he should know how to figure things out. Graves closes his eyes, tries to focus. He finally has a distraction, he should use it.  
The wampus looks like a tattoo in black ink, just the right size for the arm. It reminds Graves of his schooldays at Ilvermorny, of the one summer when he was 16 and his roommate had tried to convince him to get a house symbol tattoo. Graves had refused, saying that he wouldn't want to accidentally cover his soulmark spot. This memory makes Graves’ breath hitch. Another look at the arm. He tries his best to remember everything he's ever read about soulmarks. He doesn't know much, he realises. Of course there's the knowledge everyone has, the fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and interviews or home stories printed in cheap tabloids. They say that the mark appears on your body the moment you meet the other person, or sometimes it's more than one. The stories say that these marks are either identical or somehow complement each other. If you have found whoever is wearing the mark that matches yours, and it works out between you, the bearers of the mark are what the media calls 'lucky ones’. Lucky ones who share a deep emotional bond, lucky ones who are ‘meant to be’, lucky ones who are soulmates. Graves breathes, uses his brain and decides to stay rational. It's a trick, everything is.

“Director”, Grindelwald wakes Graves with the sound of his own voice. The curtains are drawn back. It's dark outside, the city lights glitter on the river.  
Grindelwald tosses him a bottle of water and, with a flick of his wand, puts a plate in front of Graves. There's bread on it, but also butter, spread and even cold cut meat. That's unusual, Grindelwald is not exactly a generous man. Graves frowns and decides to look at the face that is not his own anymore.  
“Thank you”, he says after carefully having considered his choice of words.  
Grindelwald shows an overly sweet smile. “I have decided to treat you to a nice dinner and to keep you company. We have cause for celebration, Director.”  
Celebrating, keeping company? Has Grindelwald succeeded with his mad plans that Graves has heard snippets of? Graves wants to eat, and he knows he has to be nice to get his ration for the day. “That is very kind of you”, he manages to get out of his mouth, tongue feeling heavy.  
He uses his finger to cover the bread with butter and spread because in his generosity Grindelwald has not granted him a knife, then licks the finger clean. It tastes heavenly. For a moment, there’s only Graves and the bread with spread and meat. He chews, swallows. He wants this feeling to last forever. In theory, it would be wise to save some of the food for later, but he can’t trust Grindelwald at all, he doesn’t know when he will get his next meal. He eats too fast for his stomach, but ignores the pain in it. Graves knows that his tormentor likes it when they look at each other, and although he does not want to know the answer to his next question, he has to ask it in order to keep Grindelwald’s spirits up.  
“What are we celebrating?”  
“I am glad you are asking, Director. Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Grindelwald seems to actually ask a genuine question.  
Graves’ mind races. Has anything changed outside of his flat, in the city? He wouldn’t know. “No”, he says, and then, because he knows by now that this is what Grindelwald enjoys, he begs: “I would very much like for you to tell me, please. Please tell me what we are celebrating.” He watches the eyes that look like his own light up, watches Grindelwald shuck off the suit coat. Graves doesn’t understand how anyone can look at this man and see him, Percival Graves.  
Grindelwald keeps his eyes on him while he unbuttons the cufflinks. “I’ve”, he answers, pausing for effect, “or rather, we have met somebody very special today.” Graves watches with horror as the sleeve gets rolled up. “Show me your arm Director, would you?”, Grindelwald demands. Graves obeys, the taste of the meal in his mouth turning stale. There it is, on his and on Grindelwald’s right lower arm. Their wampus cats are identical. Graves rubs over his. Grindelwald laughs.  
“Oh, you might be a useless auror, but you know what that means, Director, don’t you? I met your soulmate. Ironic, isn’t it? There you are, living your life for how many years, 37? But you don’t manage to find the ‘one true love’ as people call it. As soon as I take over, it happens. Maybe I am simply the better Mister Graves, I am already so much you, Director, I could even find your soulmate.” Graves wants to scream. Maybe it’s another trick. Maybe there is no soulmate, the marks are fake, this is nothing but a bad dream. Grindelwald interrupts his train of thought: “I haven’t even mentioned the best part yet.” The excitement in his tone starts a dull throbbing in Graves’ head. It hurts, Grindelwald’s twisted mind hurts so much that Graves fears he might fall unconscious. He wants to cover his ears. He doesn’t want to hear the next part. What could possibly be worse than Grindelwald finding the soulmate of the person he keeps as a hostage?

As much as he wants to, Graves can't move, can't turn away. He'd be hurt if he tried. Grindelwald's voice is too soft, and his words creep under Graves's skin. “I’ve met so many people today, had a meeting with Picquery, saw some colleagues from other departments at lunch, even met some foreign ministers on a corridor. So many people and I only discovered the soulmark in the late afternoon. It could be anyone, I’m sorry about that. Maybe you can help me out? What would she look like? Or do you prefer men? What kind of image is in your head when you think of your soulmate?”  
Graves shakes his head. He doesn’t know, genuinely does not know, he has no image in his head, he can’t have a soulmate, he cannot allow himself to do so much as dream of a soulmate, not in his situation. Grindelwald clears his throat, it is obvious that he waits for an answer.  
“Please don’t hurt them”, Graves whispers, takes a sip of water. His next sentences come out a bit louder. “I don’t know who it could be, I swear, but please don’t hurt them, please don’t.”  
“Please don’t hurt them!”, Grindelwald parrots him. He shows Graves a smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Avada Kedavra is painless if you do it right. Taking over MACUSA would require victims anyway, so why not make sure everyone I met today is one of them? It will be a favour for them. Think about it, Graves—you wouldn’t be a good match, would you? You’re a terrible auror, your current state proves that, you are a lone wolf and if I let you survive this, you’re broken. You won’t live a normal life after an imperius. You might even lose your job, did you ever think about that? Nobody wants a soulmate like that.” Grindelwald gets up, takes the plate with him. The sadistic joy and the hatred that seep out of his words make Graves’ stomach hurt. He feels like he is going to vomit. “Have a good night, Director.” The key turns in the lock, the curtain moves back to its place in front of the window and Graves is left alone in the dark.

Soulmate. In the hours between nothing and sunshine under the curtains, the word has found its way into Graves’ brain. After Grindelwald had left him alone, Graves had fallen to his side, curled up and bitten the insides of his cheeks to suppress the sobs. The tears had burned on the chapped lips until he had drifted off into a dreamless sleep.  
Now that the light has returned, Graves can take a look at his soulmark. He doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking about its meaning, about someone being somewhere for him. He does it anyway, and tries to guess the soulmate’s mark. Maybe it is someone who also went to Ilvermorny, it could be one of the other house symbols. Maybe it is something completely different, a kind of counterpart to the wampus as animal or a creature that shares its habitat. Graves pushes everything that Grindelwald had said to the back of his mind, and traces the outlines of the large black cat with his finger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :)
> 
> thank you all so much for reading, commenting and giving kudos (and a thank you to the other half of this account for answering the comments)! Your feedback has made us very happy; and we are excited to share the first Newt chapter with you today.
> 
> The next chapter will come online on July 2nd.  
> Love  
> shortbread

 

**Chapter 2**

 

Pickett is standing on his shoulder, watching him prepare a cuppa. The animated chirping right next to his ear makes Newt smile. Bowtruckles are known for their shyness, not their patience. “You know I need to have some tea before we can go feed the others. If I don't have my tea, I might confuse diets and I'm sure you wouldn't want to eat Frank’s breakfast, would you?”, he teases and laughs as Pickett shakes his head or rather the whole body, trembling like a twig in soft summer wind. The kettle whistles, Newt lets the tea bag fall into the mug, fills it with water that slowly turns a dark brown. Tea is always the first step when he's trying to unwind. He had dreamt of visiting the hippogriffs behind his parents’ house. As usual, this is a signal to maybe take it a bit slower, to go home for a while. He needs his family around him, needs his own study instead of a hotel room. Newt adds a dash of milk to his tea, takes a first sip. He wants to return to England. But first, tea; and then the creatures.  
The trip to New York had been planned as a quick visit. He had wanted to see what he could find here, which creatures might live in a city this big. But his plan had gotten out of hand, with the creatures escaping, and with Grindelwald being there. Now he is stuck here for a few more days for meetings with Madame President and her team of aurors. Of course he understands that he can't just leave the country in the middle of an ongoing investigation. There have been or will be interrogations with them all, and he was promised the chance to talk to Grindelwald. Newt shudders at the thought, downs his tea and opens his suitcase. He might be able to convince Pickett to stay with the other bowtruckles while Newt feeds the rest of the creatures. He can't have him completely lose touch with his species, it's not healthy for a creature. Maybe the whole socialising works better if he lets Pickett bring the woodlice to the tree?

 The sun is shining on the meadow. At Newt's feet, the group of young diricawls he had found motherless on Mauritius before coming to New York trudges through the grass. They look happy enough here, but he'll have to let them go at some point. Just like the others, except for Pickett and maybe Harold. Theseus had once suggested, only half jokingly, that his little brother should try getting attached to people instead of creatures, that it would be much more beneficial. Newt had ignored any insult hidden in the suggestion, had laughed and argued that creatures are more loyal than men and that his heart belongs to them. But that conversation happened years ago, and it seems like things have changed now.  
Newt balances his drawing pad on his knees, sticks the pencil behind his ear. He looks at his wand arm. The soulmark is a familiar sight by now, of course it is, Newt has spent the greatest part of last night looking at it. It is a paw, easily identified as that of a wampus. Newt has yet to meet one of those creatures, but he knows what the print of their paws look like, every school child does, really. Maybe he will come back to the US one day and travel to the Appalachian to find those cats. In the encyclopedia in his father's study it says that nobody can get near a wampus, but Newt doesn't believe it. People who write things like that just don't know how to talk or listen to creatures. He lets his thumb run over the mark and forces his thoughts to focus on the obvious meaning of this mark instead of on his general knowledge about wampus cats. Newt has a soulmate. Soulmates are not uncommon, but he can't help feeling special. Because he — he, Newt! — has a soulmate. As a child, he had admired the pattern on his grandfather's ankle and had often begged his grandma to show him hers. Growing up as a Hufflepuff, Newt had always been surrounded by discussions about marks and mates, about finding friends, soulmates or even both in one. A girl in his year, he can’t recall her name, had found her soulmark during potions class they shared with Slytherin. Her mate had been a Slytherin boy, and although the Hufflepuffs had all joked about it, Newt had also felt a pang of jealousy. He had never been the best at making new friends or at holding polite conversations. Being someone who had gotten along with most people, but had never had a best friend, he had found the idea of a soulmate both abstract and thrilling. It had been difficult to imagine someone who would accept or even like his quirks, someone who would encourage his studies instead of telling him to use his talent in transfiguration for a job that paid more. Soulmates, like hippogriffs, were true to their partners, didn't feel the need to find somebody else. Having a soulmark meant having a companion for the rest of one's days. To Newt, that sounds fantastic.  
While he finishes a quick sketch of a diricawl’s beak, he thinks of his mother's frequent comments on his “lack of friends” that are nothing but nosy relationship questions in disguise. She will probably cry when Newt shows her his soulmark. His father will congratulate him, say that he achieved something. Theseus might be proud, he might be jealous or indifferent. Newt knows that he doesn't have a mark and that he uses his work at the Ministry to distract himself from the fact that he doesn't have a family yet. In some aspects the brothers are very much alike.

Newt doesn’t know how long the it has been there. He had spent the last few days at the MACUSA building, walking around in a suit with long sleeves, and even when he is wearing more comfortable clothes, he doesn’t check his body every evening to see if some strange marks decide to appear somewhere. He works with beasts and creatures, he only really examines his body if there was an incident like a bite or an erumpent’s horn exploding within a 30-mile radius. The fact is, the mark is there now, has been since yesterday evening when he rolled up his sleeves, wanting to feed the mooncalves. He had stared at it for minutes, until one of the animals had gently nudged against his knee, reminded him that they were waiting for their hay.

Harold comes scampering through the grass, climbs into Newt's lap. Petting the niffler, Newt tries to remember every human he has met since his arrival. Jacob, Tina, Queenie, Madame President, two policemen, Grindelwald as Director Graves, some aurors he doesn’t know the name of, the boy Credence and his mother, Grindelwald in his own skin. Surely, it was not him, it couldn't be. Fate wouldn't be so cruel to pair anyone with such a horrible man. He hadn’t seen Grindelwald since they had defeated him, but he would meet him soon, for the interrogation that Madame President had granted him. Newt thinks that he would rather bite his own tongue than ask Grindelwald if they are soulmates. On his lap, Harold snores softly, and Newt lets his fingers run through the soft fur. It calms him. Considering everything he knows about the topic, Newt decides that Tina seems to be the most likely candidate. Soulmarks often bring those together that already know each other anyway, through work for example. The girl from his year and her Slytherin soulmate, they had worked together on a potion, just like Newt and Tina had worked together on a case. Besides Jacob and Queenie, both of whom Newt can definitely rule out, she has been the nicest person here in New York. She seemed interested in his book project, had warmed up with his creatures, had offered him her help when he’d needed it. He will have to talk to her about this, and then they will have to see if they are as compatible as their marks suggest.  
Newt yawns and looks at his watch. Maybe he has time for another cup of tea and some toast before going to MACUSA for another one of those long meetings in which Madame President talks about the future of the United States in general and that of the city of New York in particular. Newt is part of the team now; and that does feel as strange as it sounds. He doesn’t think he can contribute much, except for maybe his knowledge of obscurials. If he manages to ask in the right moment, he might be able to get Madame President to agree to a change of the laws regarding the treatment of beasts. Possibly, if he is lucky, he could even ask for a new law on the relationships between witches or wizards and muggles. When he came here, Newt thought it funny that America, the young nation that always prides itself on being more progressive than its mother country, still clings to a law that Britain abolished a little over 200 years ago after the death of a childless witch queen. Since he has seen Jacob and Queenie interact, and since he has gained the respect of MACUSA by helping to bring Grindelwald down, he feels like he can dare to suggest changes, even as the foreigner, Englishman, beast whisperer or what else some people might call him when they think him out of earshot.  
Newt lies Harold down in the grass and leaves the peaceful meadow. When he reaches the stairs that lead from the compound to the little laboratory, Pickett is already there, waiting for him. For a second, Newt considers scolding him, telling him to go back to his tree. But then he changes his mind, lets the bowtruckle climb his hand and over the soulmark to his shoulder. Together, they go back up to the real world.

 Queenie's eyes widen when he sees him. “Oh honey”, she whispers, “you would do that for me?” He grins. Yes, he will. He has thought it through on his way from hotel to the ministry and came to the conclusion that he should just try his luck. Since he is British, the worst that could happen is a travel ban, and he hopes that it wouldn't be a permanent one because he really needs to see wampus cats one day.  
“Newt, hi!”, Tina says, stepping out of the lift next to him. “Want to get some coffee?”  
“I've just had tea, thank you”, he replies. Realising that the kitchen might be a good place to talk, he adds: “But I'll come with you anyway.”  
They are alone in the kitchen, and it’s now or never. Newt clears his throat. “I want to ask Madame President to change some laws here.”  
“To make people treat beasts better?”, she asks. He nods, wonders why he started their conversation like that and how he could possibly go from this topic to the very personal, almost impolite question about soulmarks.  
“Back home, things are a bit more … equal. In society as well as the work with creatures. I don’t see why America shouldn’t catch up a bit, in both aspects.”  
She looks at him, smiles warmly. “That’s really nice of you. I'm sure Queenie will appreciate it. I think she really likes Jacob.”  
“Do you think they could be-”, Newt pauses. He’s not sure how to end the sentence.  
Tina looks at him, brows knitted. “Soulmates? He is a No-Maj, I’m not sure if they can even get soulmarks. I think those two don’t need anything on their skin, they already know they are made for each other. Queenie though, she checks her body for a mark every evening; as if you could somehow miss it when one appears.” She laughs about that.  
Newt thinks of the wampus paw, safely hidden underneath his clothes. He wants to tell his friend that yes, it is very much possible not to notice a soulmark for some time, but he also wants to keep it to himself, especially since he doesn’t know if it's her who has the counterpart on their skin. “Are you as … excited as Queenie about soulmarks?”  
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess”, she says, and Newt can't read anything from her tone of voice. That was a no, as clear as it can get without her revealing anything personal. It's all the information he wanted, it would be highly inappropriate to keep talking about it now.  
There is no mark. She’s not his soulmate. Newt doesn’t know how to react, the situation having taken an unexpected turn. He will have to think. Who did he talk to, who did he look at, who could it be if not her? But not now, now he has to concentrate on his best friend here. He gives her a smile, would like to touch her hand for a second, but is not sure if that gesture would be appreciated. So he turns his mind to the next task, the meeting they are supposed to attend in a few minutes. “Let’s go and try to change your country’s outdated laws, shall we?”, he asks, happy when Tina nods confidently.

The meeting is over, people are standing in groups, socialising, networking. Newt pretends to listen to one of Tina's colleague's while he thinks about the last few minutes. First, Madame President had talked about Grindelwald being in their prison’s high-security unit and had hinted at interrogations with him starting later today. Newt guesses he is last in line. She had also informed them of the Director's condition. “Weak but stable”, she had called it, and Newt thinks that is probably the best they can expect for someone who has been under the Imperius for two months. The worst part will probably come when he wakes up from the artificial coma the healers have placed him in. Some people never recover from the curse, Newt has even read about a man who had gone mad: he had apparated to Africa, destroyed his wand and became a hermit in a desert where, eventually, a nundu chose him as breakfast, lunch or dinner. Fortunately, there are no nundus in New York (except for the one in Newt's case), Director Graves is definitely safe from that fate. Thinking about it, such a beast would probably freeze to death anywhere outside of the African savanna anyway.  
The woman in front of him is going on and on about how much she has always admired creatures, especially unicorns. It almost makes him laugh because unicorns are a safe topic for all those who don't know anything about creatures at all, really. He had used them as an example in his little speech, knowing that they are universally loved. That part of his speech had gone well, the second one ... He's not sure about it.

He hadn't felt very comfortable in front of Madame President and all the aurors. Newt had talked about his travels, had tried to make them understand that the wizarding world could benefit from its creatures. Not by killing them or enslaving them, but by learning from and about them, by possibly farming them or by simply living side by side. He had mentioned that the British Ministry of Magic was doing a good job balancing both keeping an eye on the beasts and encouraging a better treatment of creatures. Then he had mentioned Hogwarts. He had told them about the creatures he had met there, had managed to made his audience laugh with the confession that he owed his good grades in astronomy almost entirely to the centaurs of the Hogwarts Forest and explained the Ministry's idea of introducing Care of Magical Creatures as an elective subject for students in year three and above. While talking about his school, he had also mentioned the acceptance of Muggle-born people, thus implying that it was possible for muggles and witches or wizards to enter relationships.  
Just like Pickett, who he had sometimes felt moving in the breast pocket of his suit, Queenie and Tina had been his support, sending encouraging smiles his way. Madame President’s body language had been impossible to read, but Newt took the fact that she had asked questions as a good sign. Some aurors had clapped politely, another one had spent the whole time scribbling something on a roll of parchment. He can't judge if it was a success or not, but all in all, Newt is contend.  
The unicorn enthusiast promises to read his book as soon as it gets published, and Newt excuses himself, flees to the bathroom where it is quiet. He looks at himself in the mirror, lets cold water run over his hands. All he wants now is time alone, but the sisters are waiting for him. He cannot say no to them, Queenie would be devastated if he turned her invitation down. It's her way of showing gratitude, Newt knows that. He checks his watch, decides he has two hours before his creatures need their dinner. That will have to be enough time for Queenie to cook and serve something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Egg:
> 
> Britain abolished laws against Muggle/Magical relationships "a little over 200 years ago after the death of a childless witch queen"—Newt's description hints at the 1701 Act of Settlement. It made sure that, after Queen Anne's death, the crown would go to the prostant relatives in Germany (the House of Hanover that King George I came from) instead of to the catholic Stuarts.  
> Taking Anne as a witch queen and making the problem about magic instead of religion, the law acknowledging non-Magical/Magical relationships (and thus the half-blood witches/wizards resulting from them) made it possible for the crown to stay in the magical family instead of giving it to non-magical people.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all :)
> 
> thanks again for your comment and kudos!  
> It's still a bit overwhelming to get responses to the project we basically just started for fun.  
> As you might have noticed, there are easter eggs in some chapters, references to culture or history. I'll list them at the end of each chapter.  
> It's Percival's day again—we hope you like the chapter!  
> The next one will come next week, Sunday the 9th.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**3**

 

“… levels are improving … want to take it … any moment.” Graves only hears snippets of what should be full sentences, but even those few words are enough to realise that it’s not Grindelwald talking. The voice doesn’t sound threatening at all and the floor feels unusually soft, so maybe this is one of the better dreams. It becomes quieter again and Graves feels himself sinking deep into the warmth that’s surrounding him. This is probably the most comfortable he has felt since Grindelwald has taken control over his life. He wants it to stay this peaceful as long as possible, just kind of sinking into … everything. It’s difficult to concentrate on what the voice is saying, but the tone is still friendly. Everything about this dream makes him drift away from reality. Away from Grindelwald, away from the pain, away from the mark on his arm that Grindelwald had continued to mock him about. He can’t hold on to one of the many thoughts or memories, everything dissolves into exhaustion.

When Graves wakes up, he finds himself able to think more clearly. The voice is gone, but he still feels like he’s lying on something soft. He breathes for a while, and when nothing happens, he opens his eyes. He is in a bed that’s almost too small for him, has a white duvet covering his body. There’s a window, but no river outside of it, and Graves can’t recognise any building that could help him figure out where he is. Has Grindelwald brought him somewhere else or simply transformed his flat, maybe even relocated it? That would have taken time, but it's nothing Graves can rule out. Everything is so quiet and a neutral white, it seems like it is supposed to lull him into a false sense of security. Whatever Grindelwald is planning to do next, it is probably supposed to hurt more than anything that had happened until now.  
It's sunny outside, noon or early afternoon, and the last thing he remembers is another evening with filled with degradations. Grindelwald had casually talked about what he would do to everyone around him, had again mentioned finding and killing the soulmate. Instead of begging, like he had done so many times before, Graves had tried not to react at all. He had thought that if he pretended to not care about having a soulmate, Grindelwald would leave the person alone. Maybe that behaviour had angered Grindelwald so much that he had decided to take even the spare room away from him? The feeling of sinking, Graves thinks, could have been the effect of a spell or drug. His legs, he realises, are in a straight position. He tries moving them, but can’t. Of course not, he’s still a prisoner after all. With a sigh of relief, he notices that Grindelwald has again let him keep the movement in his arms, and that the soulmark is still in its place. He has spent so much time looking at it, he could probably draw it by now. If Graves ignores that he automatically and involuntarily puts someone in danger by having this wampus on his arm, he can admit that he likes his mark. It has given him something to hold on to, and for that alone he is already grateful.

The handle being pushed down startles Graves. He hastily puts his arm under the duvet, doesn't want Grindelwald to see him look at the mark. He takes a deep breath, prepares for the worst when the door opens.  
It's a woman he's never seen before. Small, dark hair tied back, a dark blue dress. She smiles when she sees that he is awake. “Good to see you awake, Director Graves. My name is Florence Davis. Do you know where you are or what happened?”  
He doesn't say anything, his tongue feels like it is tied to the palate. Did Grindelwald imprison her and is using her body to take his sick game a bit further? Could be. He flinches when she takes a step towards him. It makes her lift both hands, a gesture of peacefulness.  
“Director Graves, Sir, I am not going to hurt you. I promise. You are in hospital. I’m a healer. Would you like to see my badge?”  
He breathes through his nose, gives her a short nod.  
“Okay”, the woman says. “I will put my right hand into the pocket of my dress to pull out the badge, then I will use my left hand and my wand to pass it to you. Is that alright for you, Sir? I won't take any more steps in your direction, I promise.”  
Another nod. Graves watches her slow hand movement. The right, then there's the badge. The left pulls a wand out of a sheath on her belt. A quick mumble and the plastic card is floating to him, falls on the duvet. He grabs it.  
There is a photograph of the woman standing before him.She looks younger in it. _Florence N. Davis,_ it reads next to the photograph, and underneath the name: _NYC Hospital for Magical Injuries_. The backside of the card shows what Graves knows is the logo of the American Healers’ Association: a wand with a snake wound around it. He compares photograph and person again. In his mouth, he collects as much saliva as he can, wets his throat. He looks at at the woman, and after a second of hesitation, says: “Grindelwald.”  
She returns the look. “Caught by MACUSA, Sir. He is imprisoned.”  
Graves lets his head sink deeper into the pillow, closes his eyes. Grindelwald defeated. Suddenly, he feels like crying. He breathes, in and out. Grindelwald can't hurt him anymore. In through the nose, out through the mouth.  
“Do you want me to leave you alone for a moment, Sir?”, the healer asks. “I could go make you some tea and toast in the kitchen. I am sorry I can't offer you anything else at the moment, your medical file only allows light diet. I would also like to inform the President that you are awake, if that is okay.”  
Graves nods for a third time, hears her close the doors behind her. He's himself again, his own person. Nobody in New York looks like him, talks or walks like him anymore. The thought makes him feel dizzy with both happiness and fear. He will have to stand up for everything Grindelwald has done. People will blame him, hate him. Grindelwald was right when he called Graves a terrible auror. Picquery will probably come in the second she receives the message that he is awake and strip him of all his titles and rights. He has been such a disgrace, not only this name but to his profession and the whole wizardry world, she will kick him out of MACUSA and name Jackson as new director. For Graves, there is no way out of this that wouldn't result in completely destroying his reputation and losing all his dignity. All he can do is wait.

Healer Davis prepares the table before pushing the backrest up. “You have some time to adjust to your situation, Sir. Your first visitor will be Madame President on Thursday, that is four days from now. Until then, you and I will work on giving you your physical strength back. I will explain everything as we go, but do have some food first.” There's tea, something herbal, and golden toast with butter melting on it, and even some sliced pepper. The healer gives him an encouraging smile, and Graves is too hungry to care about if the food is poisoned or not. He takes a first bite, the butter like a layer on his tongue. Deciding that he can trust Miss Davis, and that he doesn't want to wait any more, Graves asks: “How long since I was found? Where is my wand? What happened to my legs?”  
“Director Graves, why don't you eat first? We have plenty of time -”  
“No!”, he interrupts her, almost surprised of the firmness in his voice. ”There is no time. There never was any. I need my life back as quickly as possible, and I want every bit of information you can give me. Now.”  
The healer is still smiling, summons a chair to his bed. “Your aurors described you as rather … authoritative, Sir, and they were clearly right. I'll answer your questions now, and we can start with your training right after you've finished your toast, but only on one condition: you have to promise not to push yourself too far. That would only prolong your recovery, I'm sure you don't want to spend more time in here than necessary. If you cooperate, we will get along just fine, Sir.”  
That sounds like a good deal. Graves swallows his bite of toast and pepper. “I will. Now, my questions, please.“  
“I have no information on where MACUSA keeps your wand. You were brought into the emergency ward six days ago. No physical damages except for malnourishment and general loss of muscle mass, especially in your legs. We put you in an artificial coma to give your body as much time as possible to rest, and to spare you the pain the muscle strengthening potion often causes. You've been getting full meals with added protein via IV, and after three days we have seen increased muscle reaction, which is very good news. You will be up walking before you know it, Sir.”  
Graves is nibbling on the last piece of toast while he processes the information. Something doesn't add up. “But I can't move my legs”, he finally says. “There can't be increased muscle reaction in paralysed legs.” The healer looks at him, and for the first time there is no smile on her face.  
With a flick of her wand, she has pushed the bedside table with the empty plates away. “May I have a look?”, she asks and he hasn't finished his answer yet when the duvet is already folding itself and slipping to the foot of the bed.  
There are his legs, lying motionless on the mattress. The healer points her wand at his left foot. “Can you feel that?” It gets cold, as if she is pressing a block of ice against his sole. Graves says yes. Then heat, pricking pain like that of a needle, her hands on each of his toes. The same with the right foot, and each time his answer to her question is positive. She lifts his legs, bends the knees and places the soles on the mattress. “Hold this position, please.” He does, for a few seconds at last. He also pushes his feet, one after the other, against her flat palms. Then the duvet is back, soft and cold against his skin. There is pain creeping up. Graves is exhausted.  
Your legs are working as they should, considering for how long you didn't use them. I'm positive we will make good progress with your physical recovery, Sir. Now, when you said you couldn't move them …” She pauses, swallows and when she speaks again it's with a softer tone in her voice. “Director Graves, I think that your experiences might have left you with what a healer would call phantom paralysis. Phantom pain or other phantom feelings are a common symptom of trauma that involved physical violence, and a Leg-Locker curse counts as that. You probably were still in the mindset of being under Grindelwald's control, and you didn't even expect anything else than having paralysed legs. It is not something I can heal you from, it's something you can change in your mind. Do you understand what I'm saying?”  
Graves thinks that he does — Grindelwald has tricked his mind into tricking itself. His legs are not damaged, it's all in his head, like a nightmare. “I can move my legs, but my mind won't let me because of what happened to me”, he puts it in very neutral words. He remembers the promise he had been given: _If I let you survive this, you're broken._ Grindelwald was not joking, that much is obvious.  
“We will try that later again, after dinner. Until then, is there anything I can get you? Pen and paper, a book perhaps?” The healer’s smile is back. For a second, Graves thinks about ordering books on soulmates. He is curious about what real, scientific literature has to say about the topic. He ends up asking Miss Davis to bring him as many issues of _The_ _Time_ - _Turner_ as she can get her hands on. He has missed over two months of news, not only on American politics and Grindelwald, but also international topics. He might as well use his time to read up on everything that happened outside of his spare room.

Graves doesn't know what to do. He has spent the last two days repeating the exercises they had tried in his first day, and this morning, Healer Davis announced that it was about time for him to get up. And now she is waiting. Graves has already pushed himself to the edge of his bed. All he needs to do is swing his legs over it, but that is easier said than done. He wants to tell her that he can't do it, that it is too early, but he also doesn't want to be weak. If the healer says it is time, it's time, simple as that. Graves tenses the muscles in his right leg and clenches his teeth. To his surprise, he makes it move towards the edge, and even manages to drag the left one with it. His feet are touching the cold floor, and Graves leans his side against the backrest. He hasn't taken a single step yet and is already exhausted. Healer Davis tells him he did a fantastic job and he should try to stand now. Graves would rather sleep, but he has spent enough time with her by now to know that she won't stop until he does as she says. He takes a deep breath, grabs the metal bar she has placed in front of him and pulls himself up. He feels a bit dizzy and weak in the knees, but it's nice to see the room from a different perspective.  
“Try taking a first step, just to show your mind that you can do it”, the healer suggests.  
Graves concentrates and then, he doesn't know how, he is stumbling forward, two steps. He leans against the bar the healer stabilises with her wand, and breathes heavily. “Very good”, Miss Davis says. “Do you think you can turn around and walk back to bed? After that, we are done for today and you can rest.” That promise is motivation enough for him, and those two steps back feel far more controlled than the first two did. 

It takes fifteen steps from the bed to the bathroom. Graves sits on a plastic chair in the shower and lets the water rain on him. There is a difference between cleaning spells from a healer and a real shower. Graves knows which one he prefers. It feels like the first shower in months, feels like all the dirt gets washed away. It is the first time he shampoos his hair, shaves his beard and won't be confronted with a second version of himself waiting outside. He turns off the water and grabs a towel. He has an hour to get dressed, walk the fifteen steps back to bed and eat something before his boss will turn up.  
Dark trousers with a dark shirt, long sleeves because his soulmark is really none of Madame President’s business. He puts the towel on the heated rail and slowly starts his fifteen steps back to bed.  
  
She places a vase with a gigantic bouquet on the nightstand “Graves.” They look at each other, it takes a second before he averts his gaze.  
“I'm sorry”, he takes the wind out of her sails. “I'm sorry for letting you all down and putting MACUSA into danger. I have no excuse for what happened, I know I should have been able to defend myself better. I am not worthy of being Director anymore, I shouldn't even be an auror. I would like to ask for permission to resign from all posts.” He’s done it, he thinks with hands clenched into fists. Announcing his resignation is the least he can do for her. It is only fair, and it saves him the pain if hearing someone else call him unfit for working at MACUSA. He needs one simple word from her now, and then they are done.  
Picquery breathes next to him. Her voice shakes when she speaks. “Permission not granted, Director Graves.” He blinks, confused. Can't she see that him lying here is more than enough reason to fire him? “Percival”, she says now, and the name makes him look at her. He thinks he can see tears in her eyes. “If anyone should be apologising, it's MACUSA. We should have noticed that it wasn't you who did all those irrational things. We could have noticed and we could have found you weeks ago. You're not to blame for what Grindelwald did, and it's not your fault he used your appearance to trick us all. Your team sends you their best wishes, and they want me to tell you their vote was 100% in favour of you staying their Director. You are one of the best aurors MACUSA has ever had, and we all hope you'll be back in office soon.”  
Graves feels a lump in his throat. “You really want to keep me in office? As Director?” When Picquery simply nods, he knits his brows. “What about Jackson, he’s a good deputy, I'm sure he'd be a good director as well.”  
She shakes her head. “Jackson said he wouldn't dare to even dream of being half as good as you at the job. Besides, several people came to my office and threatened to resign if he becomes their boss before you retire.”  
Graves lets the hidden compliments run through his brain. His team wants him back. They all support him, even now. “Thinking about it”, he says, “Jackson would probably manage to lock himself out of his office, mess up the team schedules and accidentally start a war on his first day alone. I would like to ask for permission to withdraw my resignation.”  
“Permission gladly granted, Director”, Picquery answers without hesitation, and Graves can feel his mouth form an honest smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> Florence N. Davis—her first and middle name allude to Florence Nightingale, the 19th century social reformer and founder of modern nursing.  
> logo of the American Healers’ Association: a wand with a snake wound around it—the logo is the wizarding version of the rod of Asclepius


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> as always—thank you for reading and showing your appreciation by giving kudos for the last chapter.  
> Here's a new one from Newt's perspective, we hope you like it.  
> Have fun reading and let us know if you like it! The next chapter will be online Sunday July 16th.
> 
> Love,  
> shortbread

**4**

 

Everything is packed, the creatures' habitats are all cleaned. If he is lucky, it is one last walk to the MACUSA offices, and then he can take leave. The heavy smell of winter is hanging in the air, coming in through the opened windows. It's too cold outside, a day made for spending it in the case, editing his notes. Newt looks at himself in the mirror and decides that a jumper and his Hufflepuff scarf are good enough. He doesn't want to wear his suit. It's much more comfortable without, and it's his last day here in New York, he is done caring about MACUSA’s dress code. For a second, Newt considers taking his case with him, but then decides against it. If one of the creatures escaped, even if it were a harmless mooncalf, he'd be in trouble. With a sigh, he locks the case in the hotel room’s cupboard.

Coming into MACUSA is very different from coming into the Ministry at home. Being over ground, everything here seems bigger and brighter. It's like this building reflects the American self-image, like it's saying _Look, we are a nation on the rise!_ It's a demonstration of power that Newt finds unnecessary and almost ridiculous. He will probably never get accustomed to this mindset, but that's okay, he's only visiting after all.  
Tina is already waiting for him in front of the lift, just like she had promised. “I’m going to bring you to Jackson. He wants a word with you, of course”, she says after a quick hug.  
“Why 'of course’? Can't you just talk to me?” He gets a glance from Tina that should probably make him question his intelligence.  
“Jackson’s the deputy, and he wants to brief you before you go down to the cells. I can't do that, my position doesn't allow it.”  
“The cells?”, Newt echoes.  
She stops abruptly. “Did you leave your brain in your case today? Yes, the cells. You have your appointment with Grindelwald today, remember? It's talking to Jackson, talking to Grindelwald, lunch with Queenie and me, and a last meeting with Picquery. Your port key is booked for this evening.”  
Oh. Yes, he remembers. He'd pushed the fact that he'd meet Grindelwald to the back of his mind, and now it has come as a surprise. “I'm not prepared, mentally, I mean”, he explains, trying not keep his voice calm. “I don't know what to say to or how to stand in front of … Can I get more time?”  
“Sorry, Newt”, Tina sounds like she really means it, “tight schedule.” She takes his arm and drags him along.

Jackson smiles as he enters the office. “Ah, the hero.” Newt doesn't know if it's meant as a compliment or if it's irony. Either way, he doesn't like it. He's no _hero._ Theseus, yes, he's fought in a war, risked his life for the country. But he, Newt, didn't do anything. He came here to study American creatures and that had simply gotten out of hand.  
“Good morning, Mister Jackson”, he says because it's considered impolite not to react. They shake hands and Jackson offers him a seat, asks if he would like some coffee. No, Newt doesn't want coffee. He'd take tea, perhaps, but Americans don't know a single thing about how to make a nice cuppa, so he politely declines.  
Jackson leans back in his chair, the coffee in his hands. “I hear you are going home today, Mister Scamander?”  
Newt nods. But before that, he'll meet Grindelwald, and they need to talk about that. “Are you looking forward to being back in Britain? Will you go search for more adventures or will you enjoy the quiet of the countryside and edit your book?”, Jackson asks.  
Smalltalk, Newt realises. Jackson's probably not even interested in the answers, he just wants to make polite conversation with a _hero_ because that is what you do with _heroes._ Newt wants to disappear into his case or talk to Tina. At least he knows that she actually cares about him. “I think I've had enough adventure for some time”, he replies before coming straight to the point: “I was told I'd get to talk to Grindelwald today?”  
The man in front of him sighs. “Ah, yes.” He makes it sound like he's disappointed that Newt didn't ask about his breakfast, his weekend plans or his extended family. “About that … I, meaning MACUSA, need to know what you will talk about. You will have fifteen minutes. We can’t give you more, MACUSA interrogation policy. There are rules that you need to be aware of, of course. So, why do you want to talk and what about?”  
“I just want to know what he can tell me about obscurials, really”, Newt says. “How he could use such a relatively old boy for his purpose. I hope to get more information on how it works. I think it's something we need to understand better. The whole wizarding world could benefit from that knowledge, and in a way, it's just like learning more about creatures.”  
Jackson laughs. “Of course it’s about creatures for you. I should have known that, Mister Scamander.”  
Newt isn’t sure why this is so amusing. Looking at it from a zoological point of view, he is right: people are nothing but creatures. But explaining that to Jackson seems like breath and time wasted. “So what are MACUSA’s rules? I don’t want to have an audience.” He doesn’t mention that it’s easier to talk to a creature in captivity when you are alone.  
Jackson finishes his coffee. “He refuses to talk unless you are alone with him anyway. Our rules are simple: don’t mention anything. No names, no details of the investigations that you might have overheard, nothing. Grindelwald might try to ask questions, don’t answer anything. You are the only non-MACUSA person who is allowed an interrogation, and we are not sure how he will take that. Don’t be disappointed if there won’t be any reaction, Mister Scamander. If you have no more questions …”  
Newt breathes in and out, looks at a coffee stain on the table. He wants to ask if Jackson has talked to Grindelwald yet, but he doesn’t think he’d get an answer to that. But he also doesn’t want any more smalltalk. Newt decides to ignore the bad feeling he has. It will probably stay until the meeting is over: “I’m ready.”

It’s colder, darker, more quiet down where the cells are. The auror who leads the way doesn’t talk. He had mumbled his name, but Newt hadn’t understood it and he hadn't wanted to ask. They stop at the end of a corridor, in front of a black door. There's a number on it, _1908_ , and Newt wonders who or what MACUSA keeps in the other 1907 cells.  
“Through here”, the auror says. “No physical contact, he's behind a barrier. No answers to any questions. No change of topic. No more than quarter of an hour. I'll wait outside and watch through that window here, cell is soundproof.”  
“Thank you.” Newt tries to give him a half-hearted smile before he opens the door. He doesn't have time to take in the surroundings because the figure that had squatted in one of the corners gets up and walks towards him. The mouth gets twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer. The dark blond hair, the slightly crooked teeth. Ever since Director Graves's appearance had faded away, Newt couldn't forget this new face. Just looking at it is almost enough to make him shudder.  
“Newt Scamander, what a pleasure!” Grindelwald's dark eyes have a glint in them that Newt had never seen in any creature’s eyes, not even in a nundu's. Maybe it's the dishonesty that shows, or maybe it's plain madness. It's fascinating. “Or are you Hero Scamander? Is that what they call you now, do they finally acknowledge you? You've always been the odd one out, haven't you? At home, at Hufflepuff, even at work. Has that changed now? Are you on a level with your brother? The hero of war and the … magizoologist who stumbled upon me by accident. Hm, doesn't sound as heroic as I'd thought.”  
Newt blinks. He doesn't have an answer to this kind of monologue. “Mister Grindelwald”, he says, deciding to stick to his prepared sentences. “I came to ask you about obscurials. I want to know how you obtained them and how you managed to keep Credence alive for such a long time.”  
The laugh he gets as an answer makes Newt want to leave. It's cold and harsh. “What do you think I did?”, Grindelwald asks back, eyes still shining. “I … convinced them. I talked to them and they saw that I was right. Their decision to support me was their own, Mister Scamander. I'm not a monster like your beasts are, all I do is make people think.”  
Newt doesn't believe that. Someone who uses the Imperius doesn't just talk to people. This is the mindset of a complete madman, and the threatening undertone in Grindelwald's voice does nothing to hide that. He's probably expecting an upset reaction, had called beasts monsters as if he'd hoped to insult. Deliberately ignoring that, Newt nods. “Thank you for talking to me”, he says and takes a step back, ready to turn around and leave.  
He hears Grindelwald clear his throat. “That's a very pretty soulmark you have there. Wampus paw, isn't it?”  
Newt freezes. His hand touches the arm. He had forgotten the rolled up sleeves.  
When he looks up again, Grindelwald stands right in front of him, as close as the magical barrier allows. “Let's make a bargain. What can you offer me in exchange for information on your soulmate?” There is curiosity in the eyes, and the smile on his lips is almost deceitfully soft. It looks like Grindelwald is keen on talking about this.

“There is no information. You're lying. And I have nothing I could give to you.” Newt is proud of his voice sounding strong. Why would Grindelwald know anything about his soulmate anyway?  
There's the laughter again. “Oh, I could tell you so many things, Mister Scamander. Because we've met, your soulmate and I. I know who it is, but don't worry, I won't tell you. It will be much more fun when you figure this out on your own. You'll be more than surprised, that I can promise! But I could give you hints. Maybe I should be generous for once, not ask for anything in return. So … Would you like to know more about your mate?”  
“Anyone would like to have as much information about the counterpart to their mark as possible”, Newt says, sounding as neutral and disinterested as he can manage.  
Grindelwald laughs again, cold and harsh. “Of course”, he agrees. “But you, Mister Scamander, are a special case. I'd understand if you didn't want to know anything. Because your soulmate is … I'm sorry to tell you, but your mate is basically useless. You've been waiting for so long and then fate gives you someone who is good for nothing, an utterly weak person. Didn't have the strength to work against me, but was also too much of a coward to work with me. I really don't want to ruin it for you. But … My condolences, Mister Scamander. Someone like you deserves better.” They look each other in the eye. Grindelwald seems satisfied with himself. Newt concentrates on filtering everything he's just heard. Grindelwald had met his soulmate, had apparently tried to pull them into this mad war of his and then punished them for not complying. That means it's no dark witch or wizard, and it sounds like the person is still alive, probably affected by whatever Grindelwald did to convince them. Newt knows that some people have died while others have survived the pain and torture they'd endured for refusing to choose what Grindelwald calls the 'right path’.  
“You're lying again, Mister Grindelwald”, Newt decides. “Even if you've met my mate, you're lying. Nobody is useless. No matter what you've done and who it is, my soulmate is not useless.”  
Grindelwald shakes his head, chuckles. “Ah, to be young and naïve … You can believe whatever you want to, but remember my words when you meet the broken person that is your soulmate. Don't say I didn't warn you.” With that, he turns around and goes back to his corner.  
Newt wonders if he should say goodbye or anything else, but then he just shakes his head and leaves the cell. The auror, leaning on the wall, looks up. With a wink of his wand, he bolts the door. “Ready to go up again, Mister Scamander?”  
“Yes please!” He wants sunlight, warmth, something positive. The things Grindelwald had said … He’d have to think about that later, try to figure out what it means or what to do with the information, no matter how much of it is actually true. 

“Newt, are you alright? You look a bit pale.” Tina touches his arm, makes him flinch.  
“It’s just Grindelwald”, he tries to explain. “Meeting him was … I didn't expect him to be so …” Newt gives up and shrugs. He rolls down his sleeves, one after the other, doesn't want Tina to see his mark. It's enough that one person knows, Newt wants to keep it hidden for now.  
Tina's hand is on the fabric of his shirt, warm and comforting. “People who've met him are all a bit shaken afterwards”, she says, and for a second, Newt wonders how Jackson or Picquery felt after interrogating Grindelwald. “If you'd rather cancel our lunch date, Queenie and I would understand.”  
He shakes his head. “No! It's the last time we're together before I travel back home, I really want to spend time with you. As long as your sister stays out of my head, I should be fine.” Tina laughs.

The flat smells of soup and meat and baked goods. Queenie's directing everything with lazy wand movements, and gives Newt one of her beaming smiles. “How wonderful to see you before you leave us”, she chirps, kisses him on both cheeks.  
“He just met Grindelwald, so try not to pry, please”, Tina says before Newt can even finish his thought. Queenie frowns. “Poor you, and don't worry, I'd never! Go sit, food is ready. We have a light broth, vegetables with potatoes and chicken, and a dessert that I'm sure will cheer you up, Newt!” He takes the bench, as he has done so many times in the last weeks, and plays with the soup spoon. He'll miss this small flat, and the two sisters. And the cooking, of course. If he wants to, Newt can put a decent homemade meal together, but of course that doesn't compare to Queenie's kitchen witchcraft.  
They talk about travel plans, and Tina's new old job as an auror. He laughs when Queenie asks how Pickett has been doing lately, if he has managed to socialise. No, of course not, but Newt is thankful for the distraction that pushes the memory of Grindelwald further into the back of his mind.

While Madame President keeps thanking him, Newt keeps insisting that there's not much to thank him for. He doesn't like being in the centre of attention, and although Picquery is much easier to talk to than Jackson, it's also worse in a way because she's in such a high position that it makes him more nervous.“Are you planning to come back soon, Mister Scamander?”, she asks, and Newt isn't sure if it's genuine interest or if she's hoping for a no because his current visit has caused quite a mess.  
“Well”, he starts off, trying to figure out a diplomatic answer. “I want to work on my book first. But yes, I'm already planning a visit. I've promised Miss Goldstein I'd bring her a copy of the book once it gets published. And maybe I could get to actually study American beasts next time I'm here.”  
She nods, and it's only then that Newt realises he should have offered her a book as well. It’s too late now. Fortunately, Madame President seems to ignore his mistake. “You are always welcome here. You might have a big impact on American wizarding history, Mister Scamander. I have to attend my next meeting now to discuss some of the changes you have suggested. I have mainly called you in to thank you, and I have this for you.” She hands him a folder, black with the golden MACUSA logo printed on it. Consider it my parting present and a token of gratitude from everyone at MACUSA. I'm looking forward to reading your book, and I hope you'll include the creatures of our country in the second edition.”  
The handshake is firm. “I will, I promise. Madame President, it was an honour to meet you. Thank you so much for everything.”  
“Goodbye Mister Scamander, and safe travels.” And with that, closes the door behind them, leaving Newt alone in front of her office. He's already said his farewell to the Goldsteins and Jacob whose baked niffler was Queenie's dessert. He has one of them wrapped into some parchment as a present from all three of them. And now he got something from Picquery as well. He opens the folder. There's a document in it, with the official seal on it and Picquery’s signature in dark green ink. This piece of paper is definitely one of the best and most useful gifts he could have imagined. _Permanent Permit for the Carriage of Magical Creatures_ , it says on top of the page. Newt smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:  
> \- I made Grindelwald's cell the number 1908 because I think it's hilarious that Harry Potter Wiki gives the very vague "pre 1909" as Graves's birth date.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people,
> 
> thank you all so much for all your feedback! We appreciate every kudos, comment and bookmark we get.
> 
> We'll upload the next Newt chapter on July 23rd.
> 
> Happy reading and lots of love  
> shortbread

**5**

He'd walked up and down the corridors of the Private Hospital Ward more times than he can count. At first he’d used a walking stick to give him stability, but after a few days, Graves had managed without additional support. He is still a bit slow, but will soon be back to normal speed, just like with his wandless magic. When not being busy with exercises for his legs or his magic, Graves had spent hours sitting in his room, working his way through all the newspaper editions. It had only been Grindelwald's real face that had looked at him from the title pages, never his, Graves's, own. It had felt surreal to see that Grindelwald's hair that was a different shade of grey in the black and white photographs. But his eyes had the same dangerous glint in them that Graves had gotten used to seeing, that he still sees in nightmares. As soon as he’d gone without a cup of Sleepless Drought after dinner, they had come back. Not every night, though, and Graves thinks that's already a good sign. Sometimes when he wakes up after one of those bad dreams, he is convinced that he can't move his legs. It's still terrifying, and some nights it takes longer than others, but most of the time, Graves manages to whisper a Lumos and to remind himself that he is safe.

When he had reluctantly told Healer Davis about this, she had brought him pen and paper, said something about letting his feelings out. Graves sips at his coffee and looks at the bullet points he's written down. He's made a list for Jackson, things that he'd thought of while reading the news. At the bottom of the page he's written _Possible for me to visit him (?)_. Of course it's possible, Graves knows that. What he doesn't know yet is of he really wants to see Grindelwald again. He still has time to make up his mind. He'll be discharged the day after tomorrow, on a Wednesday, and thanks to his boss, he'll have the rest of the week off to 'adjust’, as she had called it. Graves would rather go back to work straight away, he thinks it might distract him, but he knows that arguing is pointless. His boss won't give in. Graves takes another sheet of paper. He writes _Questions_ on it, and underlines it, then stares at the word. Thinking of Grindelwald, there are none. Or maybe there are, but Graves doesn't want answers. The newspapers give enough information on everything that happened, he has no interest in hearing a twisted version of events. The only questions he needs answers to are about himself, his mark, his soulmate. He scribbles down: _Who? How could it happen when I was not in my own body? What exactly does it mean to have a soulmate? Where can I find her or him?_ The ink dries slowly, and Graves realises that he could probably get some information in books, but not the most important ones. If he could convince Grindelwald to give him a detailed list of all the people he had met … But no, he has to figure this out on his own. A snip of his finger and the piece of paper is nothing but a small pile of ash on the table.

“Director Graves?”, the healer who works the night shift asks, knocks on the bathroom door. “I’ve brought your dinner.”  
“Yes, thank you”, he calls back. “I’ll be out in a minute” Graves checks his appearance in the mirror. If he turns his arm a bit, he can see his soulmark. He slips into a black cardigan, pulls the sleeves down and opens the door.  
The healer, Mrs Elliott, is busy arranging the tray on the table. She smiles at him. “I’m sure you’re happy it’s your last night here, Director.” He only hums as an answer. “The papers for your discharge will be ready tomorrow morning. Healer Davis will go over them with you, our patient usually leave before noon.”  
Before noon. That’s earlier than Graves had expected. He will have to go back to his flat, alone. The flat where Grindelwald … He looks at the plate and starts buttering the first slice of bread. He gives Healer Elliott a tight smile, unsure if he should try to start a conversation. There are no topics. All Graves can think about is his flat. The spare room. He doesn't want to go there, doesn’t know how he'll be able to live there. The bread has no taste anymore. Graves takes a sip of the tea that came with it. The hand holding the cup is shaking slightly. He is clearly panicking, needs to calm himself down. Grindelwald had told him he wouldn't be able to live a normal life after the Imperius, and with that kind of reaction at the mere thought of going home, Graves can't help but feel that maybe he was right.  
“Is there anything else I can get you, Director? Do you want a potion tonight?” Healer Elliott pulls him out of his thoughts. She has made his bed for the night, and the curtains are already drawn.  
For a second, Graves considers the option, but decides against it. He doesn't like being drugged up, even if that gives the guarantee of not having nightmares. But he also knows he needs a distraction, something else that can help him fall asleep. He chews on the last piece of bread that tastes better than the one before. “I know it's rather late, but do you think I could borrow a book?”, he asks.  
Healer Elliott watches him walk to the bed, tea in his hand. “You're not allowed in the library this late, Director. But if you tell me which book you would like to read and give me a few minutes, I will get it for you. It is your last night here after all.” Graves nods. Yes, it's his last night here, but at the moment he'd rather ignore that fact.  
Healer Elliott leaves him alone with his tea. Graves leans back into his pillow and breathes in, out, in out. The knock on his door is so soft that he almost doesn't hear it. “Yes?”

The young woman, almost a girl, opening the door is wearing the uniform of those who have just started their training. “Healer Elliott sent me to bring you this, Sir”, she whispers more than she says it. She's placed the book on his nightstand and is out of the door before he can thank her. Graves takes _Basic Transfiguration_ , lets his fingertips run over the cover. It used to be his favourite book, in his first year at Ilvermorny. He remembers researching possible careers and practicing with anything he'd gotten his fingers on. Opening the table of contents, he goes through every single spell. Reading something as familiar as this, something he knows by heart, makes him feel a bit calmer and better about himself. He'll go home tomorrow, no matter what. Other people have survived trauma before him. He has his work he can go back to, and he will get by, somehow.

The sun is rising outside of his window. Graves checks his watch. Half past five. He has an hour before Healer Davis will knock on his door to wish him a good morning. Graves stretches his arms and legs. Staying in bed will only trigger thoughts about being discharged today, and he's never been one to spend much time lying around in bed, he might as well get up now. He holds on to the bedframe for a minute, lets his feet get used to the feeling of solid ground beneath them before he staggers into the bathroom.  
It's the first time since his rescue that he's looking at himself in a mirror, really looking. He's thinner, of course, and he needs a haircut. The lines on his forehead have become deeper, more prominent, and Graves thinks that something about his eyes makes him look different as well, though he can't say what. He seems older now, as if Grindelwald had stolen more time than just those two months. This, the man he's seeing in the mirror, is him now, and there is no way of going back to the before, the younger version that Grindelwald claimed for himself. He wonders if he looks broken, if people will see him as a victim or as a survivor. He isn't even sure what he is to himself. With a sigh, Graves gets the shower running.

It's the first cup of coffee after days without that makes his heart race, he tells himself over breakfast. It's not the stack of papers he's going through and that will be final once his signature is on them. His bag is already packed, waiting on the chair beside him. He's not nervous about going home, he will be okay. _The patient still experiences nightmares, phantom paralysis of both legs occurs infrequently. Recommended are infusions or light sleeping potions as well as conversational therapy._ , he reads. His problems in two short sentences. Graves already knows he'll stick to tea, it's far too risky to take a potion while being alone in his flat. Talking … Well, talking’s simply not an option. He takes the quill and signs the document.  
“Director Graves”, Healer Davis greets, closing the door behind herself. “We're almost done. You've read the documents by now, I guess. Do you have any more questions?” He shakes his head, gets one of her smiles in return. She moves his bag from the chair to the floor and sits down. “Director Graves”, she addresses him once more, tone calm. “I know it's not easy to deal with a trauma. I also know that some patients find it difficult to open up about their experiences. But I want you to know that talking can help, and that confidentiality is not just a word. It’s entirely your choice, of course, but I've written down the names of people I’d recommend.” Graves nods. Of course everything is confidential — until you're under a curse. Healer Davis looks like she knows that he won't go to a therapist, but she is still smiling. She puts a brown paper bag on the table. “I've packed some of our evening tea for you. Mixed herbs: melissa, valerian, lavender, chamomile. It's what you drank for dinner here, and I thought it might help you sleep at home as well. If you need more, you can always come back. If there is anything you'd want to discuss with me, you know where to find me. I wish you all the best, Director.”  
It's nice of her to be this thoughtful although she probably has more than enough people to worry about. He takes her outstretched hand and shakes it. “Thank you for everything, Miss Davis.” They look at each other for a few seconds. Graves wonders if she will think of him after he leaves or if patient replaces patient replaces patient in a healer’s mind.  
“If you are ready, there is someone from your team waiting for you outside”, she says. Graves frowns. They sent someone? Do they think he's not able to go home on his own? He should have known they'd do something like this.  
  
Auror Marshall jumps to her feet as soon as she sees him. “Director! Good to see you up again, Sir. I’ve been chosen to accompany you to your flat, but the others all send their love, of course.”  
Graves blinks. “Of course”, he echos. She’s been chosen — that probably means Jackson burst into the office Marshall shares with Goldstein and simply assigned her the task. “You protected my flat with spells that someone needs to remove”, he states more than he asks.  
“Only the best spells, Sir.” Marshall sounds proud. “Would you like us to apparate together?” She offers her arm. As always, Graves can't help but notice how petite this woman is. He's never told her (and he never will) that his decision to hire her had sparked discussion about height requirements for aurors. Of course it had been those outside of the department that had argued for such a regulation. It's always those looking at a situation who think they can judge it best.  
“If you can spare the time”, he says, surprising them both, “I would actually prefer to walk.” He needs to become used to the outside again, and to people. Besides, walking will be good exercise. Marshall just nods and they leave the waiting area together.

The sun is powerful, doesn't care that spring is still far away. Graves has missed parts of November, the whole December and the beginning of January.  
“We are all looking forward to having you back at MACUSA, Director”, Marshall disrupts their silence. “Jackson most of all.”  
Graves looks at her, raises his eyebrows. “Are you attempting to discredit the deputy?”  
She laughs. “Not at all. It's just that Jackson asks if you think you could conduct the second round of job interviews next week. O’Toole did the first, picked out seven candidates, three of them female. Jackson would take over if you'd rather have a quiet first week, but you know he doesn't particularly like the task.”  
Right, job interviews. Ilvermorny graduates received their certificates at the end of February and auror training usually starts in April. Their process is always the same: one auror is responsible for preselection, Graves picks his favourites and then they decide as a team. “Well, you're the one who's met me, what do you think, Marshall?”, he asks back.  
She darts a glance at him. “It’s a good task to get started again after having taken some time off, I think. And to be honest, you're better at this than Jackson. Not enough action for him.”  
Graves almost laughs because she is probably right, and because she's found such an elegant way of paraphrasing what happened to him. “You can tell Burns to schedule the first appointment for Tuesday. I want the department meeting Friday afternoon. And I know I'm off work until Monday, but if you could get me the candidates’ profiles-”  
“I have them here, Director. I had hoped you'd say yes.” She pulls a folder out of her bag.  
Graves smiles. He should have known. “Good thinking, Marshall”, he says calmly, and the auror openly grins back.

It’s been five minutes since Marshall had left him alone. The key weighs heavy in his hand. With a sigh, he unlocks the door, pushes it open.  
It all looks so familiar, of course it does, it’s his flat after all. The door to the spare room is open, he can see the curtains. Two months. He had spent two months in there. Graves bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself grounded. Grindelwald is not here anymore. Its nothing but a room now. He can't go in there, can't stand the thought of spending as much as a second in it. A quick hand movement lets the door bang shut.  
Graves starts casting cleaning charms, slowly makes his way through the flat until he's standing on the rooftop deck, feeling a bit better. Grindelwald isn't here anymore. He's in a cell somewhere at the MACUSA building, and Graves doesn't intend to ever let him out of it again. There won't be a victory for Grindelwald, not even here. He goes to the kitchen, makes a cup of Healer Davis’s infusion and takes it outside. The tea calms him down. Graves breathes the cold evening air. He knows, of course, that he can do this. He won't move to a different place just because of what happened, that would be ridiculous and weak. The memories and nightmares can have the spare room for now, but the rest belongs to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone :)  
> when we started writing we didn't think we'd ever get close to 100 kudos. Thank you all, we appreciate every bit of feedback we get!  
> The next chapter will be online next Sunday, July 30th.  
> Until then, have fun reading!
> 
> Love  
> shortbread
> 
> Ps: we know it's "the slowest slowburn to ever slowburn" (said the co-author), but we promise the story is actually getting somewhere. We actually had the whole plot before we even started writing, so no, the pairing is not just there to attract readers, haha.

**6**

 

They recognise him, even the little one. It presses its beak into his hand, currs happily. “You're glad I'm back, hm?”, Newt asks. “Know what, so am I. Good news for both of us: I'm editing my book and have another week off, that means I'll stay for some time.” The hippogriff looks up at him, and he smiles back. The mother creature watches their interaction calmly. Since he's come back to England, Newt has spent more time here or in his case than with humans. Surprisingly, nobody has made any comment about that yet, not even Theseus. Newt needs time to himself, and he doesn't care if it looks like he's hiding. Maybe he is. From some people at the Ministry that suddenly started to greet him in the hallways, from the conversation he soon has to have with his publisher about deadlines or cover artwork, and most of all from the newspapers that are treating his return like a minor sensation. All Newt wants is to write about creatures. He pets the hippogriffs one last time before he makes his way back to the house.

“Your brother is joining us for dinner today, we’re eating outside”, his mum greets him as soon he enters the living room. “Can you go get some carrots and parsnips from the garden, please?” Newt decides he'll take the niffler with him. He'll probably like chasing the gnomes around or dig himself a little hole. If there are enough vegetables, they can take a few back to the case, some creatures might like them.  
Harold screeches when he sees the gnomes. It’s not his usual quiet quacking and he clings to Newt’s hand as if his life depended on it. It would make sense, nifflers and gnomes not liking each other. They probably constantly get in each other’s way in the shared habitat, and while Harold sticks to small insects and worms, gnomes sometimes eat little birds or … Oh. Maybe he has just found out something about gnomes. “Sorry, Harold”, he apologises, “that was a terrible idea. Let’s go see who would like to eat carrots and turnips instead, shall we?” The mooncalves will, definitely.

There's a filled plate waiting for him. Theseus is already sitting there, still wearing his office robes. He looks tired, gives Newt nothing but a short nod. “Nice to see you.”  
“Yes, good to see you, too. How are things at the Ministry?”  
“Oh, the usual madness, you know how it is … People are constantly asking me if you have started writing. Have you? And rumour is out you'll be invited to the annual ball this year.” Theseus laughs at that.  
Newt sighs and starts to eat. Him, at the Ministry ball? That sounds like the most ridiculous idea. The roasted vegetables feel like they're almost dissolving in his mouth. He swallows. “I don't only have to write”, he explains, “I also have to edit my notes. I'm meeting Worme tomorrow to discuss details. And if you dare to invite me to the ball, I'll bring a nundu.”  
“Attending would help to raise awareness for your work, though”, their father, sitting next to him, argues.  
He is right, Newt knows that. Of course people would like to see him at such a public event. But not because of his love of creatures. He'd be invited because he's Theseus's brother, because he helped defeat Grindelwald. “As I already said — I'll meet Worme next week and then we'll talk about everything, including how to promote the book.” They eat in silence after that, his tone had made clear that he was done with the topic. When Theseus eventually asks how many species the book would list, Newt takes it as a polite peace offering.

 _Dear Tina,_ he writes later that evening sitting at the small table in his case,  
_thank you for your letter. I've arrived safely and am spending the majority of my time at my parents’ estate. Mum breeds hippogriffs, I enjoy being around them, but Pickett doesn't like it very much, he thinks they view him as food. I hope to soon be able to tell you when I'll come back to the US. Are you busy with damage control in New York, and how will you deal with Grindelwald? I hope your director will soon be back in office so you can all go back to normality and you don't have to endure Jackson as your superior. Please tell Queenie that I miss her cooking and Jacob that I still haven't found anything that rivals his baking._  
_Love  
__your friend Newt_

It will take a few weeks until he'll get an answer. Even for an owl as fast as Iris it is a long way to New York. He writes the address on the envelope and laughs when Pickett brings him the paper bag in which he keeps owl treats. “You're a good assistant, thank you.” The bowtruckle chirps his contentment, climbs up his sleeve and sits on his shoulder. Together, they take a walk through the case to find Iris. Pickett keeps chirping, but Newt doesn't listen. He's still thinking about the threat of having to go to one of the Ministry's parties. Until now, he's successfully avoided them, those gatherings where people who share their offices spend their free time together and pretend to be have a fantastic time. It's not that Newt doesn't like his colleague at the Ministry, but they are not his friends either. "We won't go to any parties, will we?", he asks Pickett and laughs when he gets an affirmative chirp in return.

Going through Diagon Alley, Newt stops in front of Flourish & Blotts. In their window, they are advertising a book on cleaning charms, one that promises foolproof potion instructions, and one on the best magical kitchen herbs. If the meeting with Worme goes well, Newt's book will find a place in this window very soon. He'll be able to walk into the shop and buy everything he's researched in the last years in a book, a real book with a cover and his name on the front. The thought makes his skin prickle with excitement, and when one of the booksellers gives him a friendly nod, Newt waves back.  
  
Augustus Worme may be chubby and warm-hearted, but he is also a business man. The moment they'd met, he had taken Newt under his wings. His signature on the book deal has made it possible to travel around, has verified visa requests and has helped Newt connect to magizoologists around the world. Worme has become a helpful advisor, and he's determined to make the book project as successful as possible. “Hello, my boy”, he roars as Newt enters the office. “Glad to have you back in good old England! I have tea, I have shortbread, take a seat, my dear, and tell me everything.” He has the teapot pour a cup and slides it over the table.  
“Thank you, Augustus.” Newt adds milk and a stirring spell. “There's not much to tell, really”, he says after a short silence. “I've been staying at my parents’ and have worked on my book. I've made good progress, I could finish it soon. Just give me a deadline.”  
Worme dunks a piece of shortbread into his tea before passing on the plate. “Now, that's what I like to hear. I received your letter and have made some notes, so let's talk about the whole publishing process, shall we?” Newt watches him take out a parchment and quill. “Its January now, that means we are too late for the winter market, which is a shame because if we'd published earlier parents could have bought the book as Christmas presents. But that can't be changed, can it? We'll publish as soon as we can. People recognise you, and they want your help. The timing couldn't be better. He nods to himself and scribbles something on the parchment. Newt takes a piece of shortbread. “We need your last pages as soon as possible. Then the title and cover design and we're ready to print. Now, you had a suggestion for the title already, didn't you?”  
“Well, _Magical Creatures_ would be nice, I think. Not too long, and it tells you what to expect.” It had also been the only thing Newt had been able to come up with, but his publisher doesn't need to know that.  
Worme seems to consider the title for a few seconds. “No offence, my boy”, he finally says, “but that's a bit short. The people love titles at the moment. Ink Publishers landed a bestseller with _Clara's Clever Cleaning Charms_ , and that probably thanks to the alliteration because why else would a normal household book become this successful. We don't need that kind of thing, but we can play around with the wording. Fantastic, for example sounds much more exciting than magical. And creatures, that word is too long to go with either of the adjectives. Let's make it beasts instead. _Fantastic Beasts._ Sounds good, doesn't it?”  
Fantastic Beasts. Newt tries mumbling the title. “It's actually incorrect”, he says. “All beasts are creatures, but not all creatures are beasts. I'm working on a general introduction to magizoology, and the encyclopedia part includes all, beasts and creatures.” At that, Pickett sticks his head out of Newt's shirt pocket to chirp his agreement. The publisher roars laughter at the sight, and the bowtruckle slowly climbs Newt's arm, settles on his shoulder.

Worme makes the teapot refill their cups. “It’s all about marketing, my boy. People buy products that sound exciting, and we want as many people as possible to buy your book. Just think about it: How many people listen when you talk about a bowtruckle and how many are interested in your work with dragons? Danger sells, simple as that.”  
Newt takes another piece of shortbread. Worme is probably right. _Fantastic Beasts_ — it does sound exciting. “Fair enough”, he agrees. “What will happen once the book comes out?”  
“People will buy it and you'll earn lots”, Worme answers drily. Newt laughs. “Jokes aside”, the publisher continues, “we'll see how well it is received, and we'll have to do promotion based on that.”  
Promotion … To Newt that sounds like like the least enjoyable part of the whole process. “What exactly would 'promotion’ include?”, he asks, hoping that Worme won't suggest the Ministry's Ball.  
“I thought you could have a little presentation and signing session at Flourish & Blotts. Maybe some interviews with credible newspapers or magizoology journals. Don't worry, I won't push you into the centre of attention, we only do what you're comfortable with. If it all goes well, you'll be invited to all sorts of events. We can figure out together which ones to attend. Of course you can't hide completely, but there's no need to show your face everywhere.”  
That sounds reassuring. Signing is definitely something Newt can do. And if it all gets too much, he can simply disappear to somewhere far away, go on a new expedition. First and foremost, he's a magizoologist, not an author, and he doesn't intend to ever change that. He takes his bag, pulls out the chapter on bowtruckles. Pickett had insisted on his species being on top of the pile, and now he was showing his excitement by making short, high chirping noises. “You can keep those”, he says. “I only need to write the introduction and the chapter on why we need magizoology, that shouldn't take too long.” Newt finishes his second cup of tea.  
Worme quickly skims through the pages, eyes shining. “That looks promising, my boy. And your drawings are really nice, maybe we'll keep them. _With illustrations by the author_ is always a good sentence, isn't it? Now, when do you think you want to visit next? Two weeks sounds good, doesn't it? I'll have the cover design ready by then.”  
Newt nods. If he keeps his current pace, he'll be able to get everything done until their next meeting.

Frank has managed to hurt his claw, probably chafed it at one of the rocks in his habitat. The wound that had been fresh when Newt had saved him in Egypt is open again, covered with dried blood and sand. Couldn't it have been anyone else hurting themselves? Out of all creatures Newt has met in his time as magizoologist, thunderbirds are certainly among the most demanding. They are picky eaters that avoid socialising and need the combination of hot days and cold nights of the Arizona desert to be happy. And, as he knows from experience, their wound repair takes ages. Frank’s release into freedom had been one of the reasons for travelling to America, but then the thunderbird hadn't eaten right, so Newt had taken him back to England again. And now it looks like they're starting all over again.  
“I’ll have to clean this, Frank. I'll put some balm on it, and then we'll cover that with a bandage. Just like we did last time, remember? I’ll try not to hurt you, and you’ll try to stay still, okay?” He gets a calm chatting call as answer, the one that thunderbirds use for their normal communication, and takes it as a sign of consent. Newt starts wiping the wound with water. Frank's leg shakes underneath his hands, the claws sink deep into the sand. One kick could kill, they both know it. “You're doing really well”, he says just loud enough for the thunderbird to hear. Loosening his grip before applying the disinfectant to the wound, Newt quickly whispers the spell. Just like expected, Frank tries to pull away from the cold burn. He makes a distressed screeching noise. “It’s alright, we're almost done, just stay like this for a bit!” It's better to use both hands to apply the bandage — and it's difficult to get it right before the thunderbird decides he's had enough. He's already spreading his wings … Frank's impatience rivals Pickett’s, Newt thinks and uses his wand to make sure everything stays in place. The second he takes a step back to look at his work, the thunderbird is up in the air. Newt lets Frank's dinner float up to him and smiles when he hears the happy cackle from high above.  
He had planned to go over a few of his encyclopedia entries, but doctoring had taken up more time than expected, and if he's honest, Newt is tired. He takes the water bowl, slowly makes his way back to his study. The creatures have all had their dinner, the nocturnal ones are about to become active. He's already on the steps when Dougal materialises in front of him and wraps his long arms around Newt's upper body. Somebody wants attention … It's not always easy to divide the few hours a day has among all his fosterlings. “Haven't seen you around for breakfast this morning. Did you have a good day?”, he mumbles, combing his fingers through the long silvery fur. The demiguise hums contentedly, blinks at him when Newt suppresses a yawn. With eyelids as heavy as his, it's not difficult to foresee the immediate future, even for a human: both of them cuddled up in one of the larger nests, fast asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people
> 
> for once, the shortbread team is sitting in the same room. The Slytherin is eating Cookies and Cream Premium Ice Cream while the Hufflepuff (that would be me) is drinking Yorkshire Tea.  
> Thanks for showing your appreciation with kudos and bookmarks, your feedback makes us very happy!
> 
> We hope you like this week's chapter.  
> I'll be on holiday next week that means the next chapter will be up on Sunday 13th of August.
> 
> Enjoy reading!  
> shortbread

**7**

 

It all looks different now. He’s rearranged most of the furniture and changed the colour of the bedding, the curtains, the carpets and rugs. It had taken him most of the evening to let the large bookshelves slide through his study, from one corner to the other. He’d drunken his tea and skimmed through his own copy of _Basic_ _Transfiguration_ until he had been tired enough to sleep for too few hours. Now the sun is rising, and coffee is slowly dripping into the pot. Of course he could take a few more hours to doze, but what good would that do? It will be better to keep a somewhat normal sleeping pattern. He'll be back in the office on Monday, that means he only has to kill three more days. Seventy two hours. He needs distraction, something to keep his mind busy. Graves sighs and pours himself a cup. There is hardly any food in the fridge. If he wants to eat — and he knows he has to — he needs to go to a shop. Then there's the soulmate topic he'd wanted to do some research on, he has today's newspapers to read, and the applications from Ilvermorny are lying on the table in the living room. If he can stretch all that out, he might be able to give his day some structure. He summons quill and paper, starts writing a shopping list.

As much as he usually likes New York, the city's expansion makes it more and more difficult to find spots for apparation. Graves leaves the backyard, lets a cleaning spell remove the dust from his shirt. It doesn't matter that it's ten in the morning on a workday, the streets are as crowded as ever. The last time he was outside, auror Marshall was with him, he had had someone to focus on. Being alone in the mass of people, the memory of Grindelwald attacking him from behind becomes more vivid. He casts a protection charm, one of the milder ones that prevents anyone from getting to close. To those who overstep the boundary, it will seem like their bodies touched for a second, unintentional contact on a busy street. And there is the wand in his pocket, of course, ready to be drawn any minute. There is absolutely no reason for anxiety it's just a trip to the supermarket, and then one to the library. He'll make it quick.

Walking through the aisles, Graves had collected the groceries within minutes. Once he has cast a charm to silence the constant buzz of people around him, it had only taken him minutes to fill his bags. He checks his shopping list once again. He's bought more than he had planned to, but that's okay, it will give him more time before he runs out of food again. He pays, goes back to the apparition place and shrinks the bag he's carrying. Just around the corner is a pub he could go to, Graves knows they still sell alcohol. Ever since the Prohibition started, the speakeasies have been sprouting like mushrooms, especially here in New York. Not even the No-Majs care about their own laws. He could really use a drink right now, something burning on his tongue that takes the tension away. It would maybe let him feel better—and be irresponsible, possibly dangerous. Just like Sleeping Draught, alcohol would numb everything for a while – and it would leave him helpless. Graves can't allow that to happen. He needs a clear mind. For work, and for life in general, as uncomfortable as it is. Before he can give in, he apparates home.

The New York Public Library is the biggest in the world, and one of the buildings No-Majs unknowingly share with the wizard population. Endless bookshelves don't only store fictional works but also hold almost everything humankind knows for fact, or presumes to know until proven wrong. The building is just as impressive with its multiple floors and the galleries from which one can look down at those sitting in the large reading room. Graves has had his membership card for years now, and he doesn't use the half as much as he would like to. He gives the women at the desks in the entrance hall a short nod and walks straight to the lifts. He presses the button that brings him to _Cellar — Staff only!_

There are boxes of books and stacks of chairs collecting dust. Graves wonders if the staff ever comes down here or if it's just them, the wizards and witches. He uses his wand to draw the outline of a door on one of the walls, tips it three times where the doorknob should be. The dirty grey of the concrete makes way for wooden panels and ornate golden hinges. _Established in 1324_  it says on a small brass-plate, reminding everyone when their collecting of memories and knowledge had started. Graves pushes the door open.

The main room, as they call it, is lit by candles floating in the air. Their flames are Lumos charmes pressed into shape, with the flickering added for effect. The biggest candle with several wicks seemingly feeding off the wax stands next to the librarian sitting behind her desk. She is reading the Time-Turner , looks up when the door clicks shut. It takes her a moment to recognise him, a few seconds until she smiles at him. “Director Graves! I haven't seen you in so long, I feared you might have found a better library somewhere.”  
“I wouldn't dare to borrow my books anywhere else, Matilda.”  
She had been the librarian for as long as Graves can remember. When he'd come in as a child, hiding behind his mother's legs, she had already been there, had shown him the children's section, and he had been allowed to pick three books for himself and three for Lynette. He'd used the school library during his time at Ilvermorny, of course, but apart from that, he'd only ever come here.  
“I know you wouldn’t”, she smiles. “I guess you know the way to your section by now.”  
“It's not mine this time. The topic is none of my usual ones, I mean.“  
Before he can go into detail, Matilda interrupts: “For work again? What do you need this time?”  
Graves decides not to correct her assumption. Saying he's researching for MACUSA is the perfect white lie. It wouldn't be the first time Graves reads up on a specific topic in order to understand a case better. “Soulmates and soulmarks. I'm looking for general information that is scientifically sound.”  
Matilda hums, pulls a piece of parchment from a pile, circles a shelf on the floor plan. “See what you can find there”, she says. “If you need help, simply ask the house elves, they should be busy somewhere.”

The library is a maze of corridors that seems to have no end. The flickering light of Matilda's torches and candles create shadows on the high walls, and she's hung floorplans and signposts every few yards. Graves wonders how often people get lost between the shelves and have to wait for Matilda or one of her house elves to come find them. He walks past sections he knows well, like history of wizardry or transfiguration. If he had time, he'd stop there to see which new titles Matilda has on offer. He passes a wizard in front of a reading desk, a house elf who dusts a shelf and another one who pushes a cart with books through one of the aisles. The section Matilda had highlighted on the map stands against one of the stone walls, covers two entire shelves — Graves hadn’t known that there would be so much literature on it. He lets a ball of light dance on his palm and begins scanning the titles for interesting words. There is _Soulmates: a Short Introduction_ next to _An Introduction to Soulmates_. They sound interchangeable, Graves takes both books. He also chooses _Everything you have to know about Mates and Marks_. The authors have all been researching the topic for years, or claim to have done so. Graves goes through the tables of contents, but it's difficult to judge if it's a good book when you don't know what exactly you're looking for. He decides to borrow all three of them. They will definitely get him through the weekend.  
“Good luck with your research”, Matilda says as she scribbles the new return date on the borrowing slip in each book. “Are you sure you don't want anything else? Reading for pleasure is important, too. It's good for your soul.”  
Just like learning more about the wampus on his arm is … Or could be. “Next time”, he promises.

 _A soulmark,_ the book says, _is the tattoo-like feature which helps a person find their soulmate(s), the person(s) that would theoretically be the best partner(s). Soulmates always have their marks in the same or mirroring spot, this reduces the risk of mistaking someone for a soulmate. Identical soulmarks are just as common as complementary ones. It is not possible to know for sure which kind of soulmark one has without seeing the mark(s) of the other(s). However, the survey conducted for this book suggests that a bigger mark is more likely to be part of a complementary set (see appendix pp 216-20)._  
_Having a soulmate is, however, no guarantee for a relationship. Some soulmates decide, for various reasons, that they would rather not spend their life together. It is important to note that removing the mark is not advised as it causes severe scars or burns, but has no effect on the mark itself. Hospitals treating people who had attempted to remove their mark report that it is impossible to get rid of a soulmark: if harmed, it simply moves to a different part of the body.  
_ Graves takes another sip of his coffee and looks at the wampus. It's been there for such a short time, but he can't imagine wanting it gone. It's a part of him, simply belongs to his arm like his lips belong to his mouth or his toes to his feet. Maybe, hopefully, his soulmate feels the same way. If this survey the author mentions is anything to go by, the other person would have a complementary mark. It's not very helpful because the options are still endless, but Graves needs every little clue he can get. He puts _Notes on Mates and Marks_ to the table, picks up of the introductory books instead. It begins with the very basic question _What is a Soulmate?_

The coffee has long gone cold, and the sunlight has wandered through the room. It’s quiet, even more without his owl present. Graves doesn't know where Rupert has disappeared to. He doesn't think Grindelwald has killed him, or rather the other way around: Rupert is far too clever to let that happen. Down in the city, the river is sparkling. From his window, it all looks so peaceful that problems like Grindelwald or soulmates almost seem surreal. They are real, though. They are very much real and the more Graves reads about the topic the less good it looks for him. He is halfway through the chapter called _How to_ _find your soulmate_ , and it's enough to understand that it's almost impossible in his case. The book presumes a normal situation of two people meeting, and that's where Graves's problems start. He didn't meet anyone. He never felt the ‘sense of belonging’, he didn't get a chance to. The common tenor seems to be that, even if you didn't recognise each other on first sight, you feel drawn to your mate and you'll eventually know it's them. He's read interviews with people who had revisited places for months until they saw their soulmate again, and some had written lists with possible candidates. For most of the cases described, it had worked out. They had waited, combined the hints, had stayed persistent and then found their mate.  
There's no starting point for Graves. All he has is the idea that his mate’s mark might also complementary to his, but even that is nothing but speculation based on a survey someone conducted a few years ago. He still can't imagine talking to Grindelwald about the day the mark had appeared, but it seems like there is no other way. The thought makes it harder to breathe, and Graves closes his eyes, trying to stay calm. Maybe he should take his mind off the whole thing for a while, make something to eat and go through the profiles of the young people who might become part of his team one day. He closes the book.

They all look promising. Of course they do, only those with outstanding marks apply for the job in the first place. Out of the seven that applied, Graves wants to accept five for training. MACUSA needs juniors. Rosenberg will retire in a few years, and there haven’t been any new aurors since Marshall, who had received her certificate three years ago. The training is hard; if three out of five make it through, Graves will count it as success. But first of all he'll have to conduct seven interviews with nervous young people who, at best, have a vague idea of what it means to be an auror. Interviews are, at least for him, by far the best part of office work, and Marshall was right when she said they'd be a good way of getting back into the routine. He'll have to judge the candidates within a few minutes—do they fit into the team, do they have the heart, the strength and the brains an auror needs? They come from all of Ilvermorny's houses, and Graves finds himself picking out the two wampus pupils. The teacher that has written recommendations for them is the same that had written Graves's own, years ago. The memory makes him smile.  
  
Before his second year, he'd shrugged to the “What do you want to be when you grow up?” of the adults, but as soon as he'd started Defence against the Dark Arts classes, he had his answer. His teacher had been an ex-auror. He had impressed Graves with his skills and the way he'd talked about the job. It hadn't taken long for both Graves and his teacher to realise that he was more talented than most of his fellow students, and the prospect of having a job that would allow him to use all of his favourite subjects combined had decided it for him. Of course, his parents had encouraged this 'honourable career path’ as his father had called it. “If you want to be an auror, and I know you have it in you, you'll have to take studying very seriously”, had been the only piece of advice his father had given him, and Graves had followed it, had excelled in both school and training. With patience and persistence he's made it to the top, has been there for the past two years. Until Grindelwald. Now he's starting over, becomes accustomed to being a new, different Graves. It's still a bit of a shock to look into the mirror, and last night he'd spent minutes in front of the shelf in the living room only to remember that the book he was looking for had found a new place in the study. Healer Davis would probably tell him that re-organising is normal or even good for people who have experienced trauma. Despite that knowledge, Graves doesn't feel comfortable with all this change he's never asked for in the first place. The soulmark seemed to be the only good thing to come out of the whole situation. But even that has a bitter taste, now that he's done some research. The search for whoever it is can take months, if not years. Graves had never even dreamed of being in that situation. Lynette and he, they had both grown up thinking that it would be easy – you'd go to some sort of event and your soulmate, a nice successful pure-blood person, would be there and you'd meet and then both of you would just know. That was how it had been for their parents, aunts and uncles. All of them had met their mates at school or formal dances or other kinds of gatherings. Lynette had met her soulmate at a friend’s wedding, they’d married a year after that and his nephew would turn ten next winter. It could have been like that for him, too. Not necessarily the quick wedding or the offspring part, but the meeting. If he had paid more attention to his surroundings, he could have beaten Grindelwald. He should have been the winner of their fight, he should have been the one going to work and meeting whoever shared his mark. He could have written a letter to his parents that he’d met his soulmate at work, and everyone would have been happy like they had been when his sister had met her husband. Instead, he's sitting here surrounded by books and is trying to figure out if he wants his soulmate. It's a question he shouldn't even have to ask himself.  
  
The options are limited, Graves thinks. He either talks to Grindelwald or he doesn't. If he doesn’t talk to him, he will probably never find his soulmate. If he does, he might find the person, but there is no guarantee. Graves doesn't know what the chances are, the books only say that the majority of soulmates become couples. There's also the possibility that Grindelwald doesn't have any information at all, or he might simply refuse to tell Graves anything. It’s a fundamental decision he has to make: does he want a soulmate at his side or not? The books suggest that he could just ignore his mark and continue with his life. That way, he wouldn’t have to talk to Grindelwald ever again, at least not about that. Graves knows that he could do it. He has spent enough time alone to become used to it. But there's a mark now, a constant reminder that someone out there might just fit into his carefully structured life. It's hard to ignore that. If he doesn't talk to Grindelwald, he’ll never know what having a soulmate feels like. He won't get the answer to the question why his past relationships never felt quite right. No matter who he had dated, man or woman, every single time had been the same: He’d been happy at first, but there had always been this underlying feeling that something was missing, and—some sooner, others later—the relationships had all come to disillusioning ends. And now the mark on his arm promises something better or greater. He could have a long, happy relationship. The people in the books had talked about feeling at home and about feeling safe. If there is anything Graves wants after his time as prisoner, it is exactly that. Safety. Isn’t that worth a few painful minutes of conversation with a dark wizard, worth the nightmares that he’d probably get afterwards? Maybe. Graves looks at his soulmark. Of course it can't give him any answers. That would be too much magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> \- the library was established in 1324 which is also the year in which the first 'witch' in English-speaking Europe, Petronilla de Meath, was burned.
> 
> \- the libarian, Matilda, is of course named after the main character in Roald Dahl's children's book "Matilda".


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody  
> thank you so much for the kudos and comments the story got while I was away on holiday.  
> It's nice to read that you don't mind the incredibly slow pace at which the plot is developing! Since I've come back, I've worked on the new chapter and I can promise that Graves and Newt will meet soon-ish.  
> The next chapter will be uploaded Sunday, August 27th.
> 
> Enjoy reading!  
> shortbread

**8**

 

“We’d hate to lose you”, his boss had said when Newt had carefully tried to bring up his job situation. He understood that. The Department for the Care of Magical Creatures is not the most popular. Young people who say they want to work in the Ministry usually mean the exciting jobs like auror. And if it has to be working in this department, then it better be more than just classifying ghouls and gnomes. Dragons are seen as interesting enough, but that is it, and you just couldn't promise everybody that they'd work in that field. That people still don't need any kind of qualification in order to be able to call themselves a magizoologist doesn't help either. They are already short-staffed, but Newt hadn't wanted to wait any longer. He couldn't let William think he'd stay in the department and then suddenly drop his notice, it wouldn't be fair. The part-time contract he is currently under is already difficult to work with, and if the book really becomes the bestseller Worme insists on, then Newt won't have much time anyways. Ever since his holidays has ended, he divides his time between the office and the case he keeps in its corner. He sees the Ministry building and his creatures more than he sees his London flat. If his mother knew, she'd probably have a fit and demand that he come back to their estate immediately. It isn't that easy. Newt knows he needs a new strategy, something that both William and he will be happy with. He'd have to think of something really good, something his boss can't say no to. With an energetic wave of his wand, Newt directs a few flies into a spider’s net before he makes his way up to the office again. Pickett walks over the desk, happily munching on a woodlouse. He sits down next to the stack of paper that Newt has to go through.  
“We have a meeting in my office”, Theseus's voice comes from the door as he's just started to read through a record. “I knew you'd probably forgotten about it, so I decided to come pick you up.” Newt puts his quill down.  
“Pickett?”, he asks, offers the bowtruckle his finger.

When Newt had been new at the Ministry, they had done this more often, a gesture of the older brother to make the begining a bit easier. Over time, the meetings had become fewer. Theseus had been promoted into a higher position, Newt had gone to Wales to work at the Dragon Research Centre. They had still talked, mostly through their fire places. Then Newt had accepted Worme's book offer, had started travelling again. It had soon become obvious that Theseus was as bad at replying to letters as Newt was good at writing them. The few they had exchanged had been short, never going into detail, and Newt had been surprised to come back into office to find the invitation to a meeting on his desk.  
Theseus unlocks the door to his office. “Am I right in assuming that you've been so busy with work that you've forgotten to eat?” There is a tray full of sandwiches on the table, and a steaming pot of tea.  
He tries to remember if he'd had lunch yet and the hesitation is enough to make his brother smile. “You know you should not only feed your creatures but also yourself.”  
Newt shrugs and sinks down into one of the comfortable office chairs. “I do eat”, he defends himself. “I would have, just later.” He takes a first sandwich, cucumber, and puts a ham and cheese one on his brother's plate.  
Theseus pours tea. “I’ll be in America in a week, international conference on security, thought you might want to know that. We'll discuss Grindelwald.”  
Grindelwald — Newt blinks the unwelcome memories of their encounter away. “Isn’t he a subject to American law, it was them who captured him?” He lets Pickett climb into his breast pocket.  
“It’s a bit more complicated than that. He committed crimes throughout America and Europe, and he was born in the USSR which means that their ministry also gets to have a word. They will have to question him and then make a verdict. And then we'll probably discuss a new kind of system for security, and how to deal with his followers.” Theseus looks tired already, and Newt remembers how drained he had felt after his short interrogation.  
It's good that Britain apparently won't interrogate Grindelwald – he'd surely make a comment towards Theseus, maybe even tell him about Newt's soulmark. “You can be happy you won't have to deal with him”, he says, touching his left arm through his shirt, “MACUSA gave me the chance to talk to him about obscurials, and I hardly got any information out of him. He digressed a lot, made fun of me for being a ‘hero’ now, like you.” Newt doesn’t mention that Grindelwald also talked about the wampus paw and the soulmate who wears the counterpart on their skin. _Useless_ , he had said. And _utterly weak_. These descriptions are always there, in the back of his mind. He hasn't forgotten a single word of their conversation, is waiting for a day when he'll be able to put a face to the few snippets of information. He still doesn’t believe the bad things Grindelwald had said, and he hopes that his soulmate, wherever they are, doesn’t believe them either. Newt has spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to find his soulmate. Just because they met in New York doesn't mean that the other person is still there, waiting for him to come back. He will, of course, but it's a big city with many international visitors … People say soulmarks are the work of fate — doesn't that also mean that fate would make sure the people it assigned to be together meet again, wouldn't it? That's what Newt is hoping for, at least. He can't count on anything but coincidence and a feeling settling in him, the one that will make him _know_. As soon as Frank's leg is fully healed, Newt will take him to Arizona, and then he'll visit New York again, hoping that luck will be on his side.

“Are you dreaming? Newt?”, Theseus pulls him out of his thoughts. Right, he's in his brother's office at the Ministry, they are spending their lunch break together.  
Newt blinks, gives a short, apologetic smile. “Sorry, my thoughts wandered. You were saying?” He refills his cup of lukewarm tea and picks another sandwich, ham and pickle this time.  
Theseus looks at him. “I was asking how you are doing. You have a lot to do with work, the book and your creatures. You look a bit tired.”  
“I get by, I guess”, Newt shrugs. “I'm actually trying to reduce my work hours, but I'm already on a part-time contract, can't reduce a lot if I want to hold my flat. And the book … Worme insists that it will be a bestseller and that I will be able to make a living with it. That sounds great, of course, but I don't want to give up my job completely. As much as I like researching on creatures, I also like being confronted with a problem and having to solve it.” Laying it out like this, the situation seems even more tricky than it had in his head earlier today. His brother has his brows furrowed, and the sounds of them eating are the only ones for a while.  
“Consultant”, Theseus eventually says, and looks him in the eye. “Why don't you quit your job and let the Ministry hire you as a consulting magizoologist for the more complex cases? That way, you'd get both: you work here and still have time for everything else. You just need to make it sound like a good deal for the department. Tell them, your work will make young people more interested in the job, offer to do some of the paperwork for them or something like that.”  
“I hadn't considered working independently, but I guess I could suggest it.” It actually sounds like a good compromise. William definitely won't say no to the paperwork part, Newt already knows that. It would mean less money, of course, but he trusts Worme's words when it comes to book sales figures.  
His brother smiles, obviously proud of his idea. “Maybe you could connect your travels with the consultation work — I’m sure the British Ministry won’t be the only institution that would appreciate someone with both hands-on experience and your expertise.”  
Newt grins back. Theseus doesn’t compliment him very often, least of all on his job. It’s not that they don’t have a good relationship, they just want different things from life, and sometimes that's difficult to keep in mind. His brother is more career-oriented, he's always been this way, just like Newt had always been happy working with creatures and avoiding the centre of attention. “Thank you.” He knows that Theseus understands it's meant to cover everything.

William sighs, but Newt can see the hint of a smile on his face. “You'd do paperwork for us until your book comes out? Voluntarily? You know how to get me, really. You have the 30-days notice period. Give me a few days to sort out a new contract, and then you'll be our first consultaning magizoologist.”  
He wants to thank his boss, but Will stops him with an impatient wave of his hand. “I want the classification updates on thestrals next week. And your book better raise our reputation, Scamander, you hear me? Cause if it doesn't, I'll have to hire you again, full-time. And I'll have you take care of flobberworms all day long.”  
“Delightful prospect”, Newt says, and they both laugh before he's out of the door.

It's getting dark in the case. On the floor, Harold is playing with a golden coin that a colleague from the Muggle department had given Newt on his last day at the office. Although he has only been at his flat for two days, he already feels more relaxed. It helps that he is no longer bound to the Ministry's working hours, and that he can spend as long in his case as he wants to. What hasn't changed for the better, though, is the workload. He has received bits and pieces from each of the department's subdivisions and goes over what his colleagues have written. There is very little to correct, they've all worked at the Ministry long enough to know how to write a protocol on classification or research results. He sets his signature under that of Janet’s, affirming that, despite an incident at Hogwarts’s Great Lake, there is no reason to classify grindylows in general into a higher category. The work is not very exciting, just the usual mandatory checking they have to do for every record. He yawns. “Let’s call it a day, Harold, hm?” Newt takes the lantern and his tea. Together, they leave the small shed he has build next to the bowtruckles’s tree. He watches the niffler run off, the coin safely hidden away in his pouch. Newt decides to sleep upstairs in his flat.

A quick shower later, he's in bed, the tea and a bowl of cereal on the nightstand. Iris had dropped a letter from America this morning, and Worme's owl had brought one at noon. They will start printing in a week, the publisher writes. He lists bookshops that have asked for signing sessions, asks if Newt could imagine appearing at more places than just Flourish & Blotts. Edinburgh and Dublin are places worth visiting, Worme writes.

Tina’s letter had been sent a week ago. Jacob's bakery seems to become more and more successful each day, and she writes that Queenie has finally asked him on an actual, official date. There will be a conference soon to discuss several changes in their laws, and Tina hopes that the situation for couples like them will improve. She writes about possibly getting auror trainees soon, the job being tiring, about working overtime to develop plans on how to stop the Second Salemites or the many illegal smuggling rings that operate in the city. _We could use you here, had a case of bowtruckle trading a week ago. Our Beast Department – I'm sure you remember it – sent them to Scandinavia._

Newt thinks of the branch he keeps in his case. He'd found them wandering around in an English forest after their home tree had been cut down by muggles, and had wanted to offer temporary shelter. The bowtruckles have been living in his case for almost a year now. He can only hope that the ones MACUSA relocated were able to find the right kind of tree in Scandinavia. Depending on how many creatures it were, and depending on the state they were in, travelling from America to Europe might have been rather stressful for both parties magizoologists and creatures. If he had been there, he would have let them travel in his case to make it less stressful, and he would sets how they had done it. Tina is right, he does remember MACUSA’s Beast Department. It consists of three people and hadn't been very useful or supportive during his time in New York. Their main approach to problems had been to eliminate the risk by simply killing the creature. They hadn't even understood why Newt had wanted to catch his beasts alive. The memory makes Newt sigh. They need to change their mindset. The wizarding community gains nothing at all from driving species to extinction, it only means that valuable knowledge and beautiful beings are lost forever. He takes the bowl of cereal, fiddles with the spoon, and starts eating. MACUSA’s is one of those institutions Theseus had talked about, one that would profit immensely from hiring him as consultant. Once they understand that magizoology is about caring for creatures and improving the relationship with them, they could become an important department in the field. The United States alone offer a lot of research options, and together with the rest of the continent, they are a treasure chest of creatures. Newt could very well imagine helping out, maybe the American and the British department could cooperate, be the beginning of a magizoology network. He suppresses a yawn. The tea has gone cold, and he should have been in bed at least an hour ago. Newt puts the bowl away, whispers a quick cleaning spell for his teeth and rolls to his side. The day has been far too long.

The light of the street lamp in front of the window gives just enough light to see darker or brighter silhouettes. There is the chest of drawers in the corner, a world map hanging on the wall, the dark shadow of his soulmark stands out against the whiter skin of his arm. Although it has been there for months now the mere sight of it still makes him feel excited, makes warmth fill his stomach. He has waited so long, ever since seeing people find each other at Hogwarts, he deserves to find his counterpart. He wants to come home to someone, wants to be able to talk about his work with someone who genuinely enjoys listening, wants to make and share memories. Staring at his mark, he tries to imagine what it would feel like to have someone lie next to him, maybe have an arm wrapped around him. People say you can’t miss what you don’t know, but Newt very much can. He knows by now that it is not an option to not find his soulmate. He’ll go to New York and stay as long as possible. It doesn’t matter where he writes the second edition of the book. He’ll figure it out, tell his parents something about wanting to spend more time exploring the American wildlife, and then he’ll wait. Newt pulls the duvet closer around himself. He doesn’t mind waiting, and he trusts in fate. Publishing the book, finding his soulmate. Those are two things he can definitely do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,
> 
> I am incredibly sorry that I was not able to update earlier today. Blame it on real life! Real life is also the reason why your comments haven't been answered yet. Both of us are too busy for fun things like fanfiction at the moment—but be assured that we read them all and love every single one, just like every single kudos and click. You all are amazing.
> 
> Since I am still recovering from a nasty cold and am running low on chapters, I need some time to catch up with the story.  
> The next chapter will come online on September 10th.  
> I hope that I'll be able to post weekly again after that, but sadly, I can't make any promises.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**9**

 

The winter cold makes him shiver, but Graves stays at the open kitchen window. It is far too early to be up, but he couldn't sleep anymore. Grindelwald had found a way into his dreams again, and after he had woken up with a racing heart and a t-shirt wet from sweat, he had decided to get up. The coffee is still too hot to drink, gives him a few more moments to wake up without the help of caffeine. Today is Monday, his first day back at the office. He huffs clouds of warm breath into the air. Although he is both the Director of Magical Security and the head of MACUSA’s largest department, Graves still sees himself, when it comes to work, first and foremost as auror. He doesn't go on as many missions as he used to, but that's due to the paperwork that being in a high position at a ministry brings with it, not because he feels less connected to his auror job. When he thinks about his team, he has Jackson and the others in mind, and if he had to pick the one thing he likes most about his job, he'd definitely choose the work as auror. When he'd been promoted he could have moved to a bigger office on the executive floor, but Graves had politely declined the offer. The auror department is where he had started the first time, and that's where he will start this time. Graves watches the day settle in on the sky. Rupert still hasn't come back. The only thing that keeps him calm is the knowledge that the owl was not in the flat when Grindelwald came. He will have found a different place for the meantime, and Graves hopes he'll sense that it's safe to come home. The coffee almost doesn't burn his tongue.

Quarter to seven, as usual. Coming into MACUSA feels a bit like coming home, Graves thinks when he enters the Woolworth building. The entrance hall with the logo on the floor, the house elves cleaning wands, the goblin operating the lift, that's all still the same. What Grindelwald felt when he came here for the first time? What the others thought when they saw him with a haircut that should have told them it wasn't him? Graves focuses on the light that falls through the large windows. He works here, he belongs here. He is Percival Graves, and he's a good auror, his team wanted him to keep his positions, he can't allow himself to panic now. Fingernails pressed into his palms, Graves concentrates on his steps.

“Good morning, and welcome back”, Burns says, looking up from a parchment. It's nice to meet someone so familiar before bumping into a person from another department or the President. They had been in the same year at Ilvermorny and gone through the training at MACUSA together. They had been roommates for a while and, until Graves's promotion, had shared an office. Burns is probably the one who knows most about him, even more than his parents or his sister. They had become friends during their training days. If there is anyone Graves could tell about his soulmark, it's Burns.  
“Morning. You're early.” It's only seven, and true first aurors, apart from him, usually don't come in before half past.  
Burns yawns, as if that's an appropriate, informative answer. “Sorry. Reading about illegal substance trading makes me even more tired than I am. I just wanted to finish these papers today, that's why I came earlier. And because I knew you'd be back. Want to get coffee and a short update on what we did while you were away?”  
Graves nods. Coffee with Burns is always a good distraction from working. And it's probably best to know about whatever happened in the department during the last few months before everyone else shows up.

Burns said that Grindelwald had spent most of his time at the President's office, that he had been too busy to engage with the auror team. Graves knows that's nothing unusual, sometimes he goes days without having a few quiet minutes in his office. He can't blame anyone for taking so long to notice that it was not really him who walked in and out of MACUSA. Burns said it wasn't his fault, and that Grindelwald could have chosen anyone. Although Graves knows that his friend wouldn't just say that to be polite, it is hard to believe.

Goldstein, Fayden, Rosenberg, Marshall and O’Toole all knock on his office door to tell him how happy they are that he's back. They all call him “Director” and after the fourth time being addressed the way Grindelwald addressed him, Graves doesn't flinch anymore. Princley only gives him a nod, but he's never been a man of many words. Fisher, in contrast, would probably use a stronger word like _delighted,_ were he not on holiday. And Jackson, Jackson plants a pile of parchment on Graves's desk, and himself in one of the guest chairs. He even brought his cup of coffee – a sign that he wants to have a longer conversation. Graves sighs internally.

“I'm very glad you're here again”, Jackson says.  
Graves takes a sip of his coffee. He'd love to be left alone for another few minutes, wants to get something to eat from the cafeteria and read through reports while having breakfast. “Thanks, Jackson. Thank you for keeping the team together while I recovered.”  
Jackson smiles at that, obviously happy about the compliment. “It was my duty, Director. I came to inform you about what's currently on our schedules. What we've just started investigating in substance smuggling and substance abuse in potions. No-Majs have been using the powder as stimulating drug for centuries, and now our community seems to have caught up with them. The next step would probably be to talk to potion masters or healers and then finding the source. The other problem we have to deal with is Grindelwald.”  
Graves nods, doesn't mention that the part about substance smuggling is exactly what Burns had told him earlier. He presses his teeth together at the mention of his tormentor, but doesn't say anything. He knows he'll have to keep his distance to the case, be professional. “Would you like to continue investigating the substance use?”, he asks. “Assemble a team, but not Goldstein or Fayden, I want them to stay on the Second Salemites case, especially since there is a connection to Grindelwald. I'll have the interviews with the new candidates, we will have a team meeting on Friday for the final decision. Apart from that, I'll spend my time reading up on the Grindelwald case. We have the conference on international security in two weeks, a lot of aurors will come over to discuss what to do with him. But as always, keep me informed.”  
Jackson gets up. “Of course, Director. I'll ask Princley and Rosenberg to investigate alongside me.” He looks out the window, before focusing on Graves again. “I am one of those who interrogated Grindelwald. If you need an opinion …”  
Graves stares at him. An opinion. Does Jackson think he can tell him something he doesn't already know? “Not to sound like I don't appreciate your offer, Jackson”, he says although he definitely doesn't, “but I think I've spent enough time with him to form my own opinion. Thank you for bringing me the files, I'll look through them.” He watches Jackson swallow. They both know that he shouldn't have said anything, and they both know that Jackson won't apologise. He simply mumbles “Of course, Director”, before he's out the door. Graves sighs, looks at the rolls of parchment. He'll get another coffee and then he'll face Grindelwald, at least on paper.

_December 9, 1926_

_Report on mission concerning case #0.387.gg._

_Aurors present: C. Fisher, E. Jackson, L. Marshall, P. O'Toole._ _  
_ _Healers present: F. Davis, T. Kyle_

_Head of investigation: E. Jackson._

_Protocol: P. O’Toole._

The record of the day he was found. He hasn't even started reading, but is already glad that O’Toole took the minutes. He keeps his protocols rather short. Graves won't have to read more about the state he was in than necessary _._ _  
_ _The breaking of the spells protecting the flat against unwanted entrance took several minutes. The victim (Percival Evan Graves, wizard, * 23/06/1889) was found in an empty room, lying on the floor, legs slightly bent. Victim unable to communicate. Healers found the victim to suffer from malnourishment, muscle weakness due to a Leg-Locker curse, and spell-induced drowsiness that made it impossible to use wandless magic._

He remembers how difficult it had been to concentrate, how he had tried to perform any spell and had failed with even the simplest ones. He hadn't been able to focus on anything for more than a few seconds before exhaustion had taken over, the floor's cold had crept into his body. And Grindelwald … The floor is cold and Grindelwald is laughing, telling him about all the people he'll kill, wizards and witches and No-Majs. He says he doesn't know what to do with Graves yet, if he'll simply let him die here or if he'll have more use for him. He says it's a shame Graves gets to call himself Director of Magical Security when he's so weak, and that he should pity his soulmate for forcing a mark upon them that connects them to someone this useless. He can feel his bones pressing into the floor, Grindelwald is laughing – and the sound of breaking porcelain brings Graves back into reality. He's pushed the mug from the desk, the coffee forms a little puddle on the floor. Someone is knocking on the door. He wipes the cold sweat from his face before he calls them in. It's Burns.  
“Just my coffee, nothing bad”, Graves says, and performs a quick reparo. The mug pieces itself together again before it comes flying back into his hand. Maybe he shouldn't have any drinks near him while he reads the reports on a case involving himself as victim.  
“Remember when my father died?”, Burns asks and closes the office door. Graves nods. A forgotten candle had burned the family's entire place down. Not everyone had made it out alive. For months, Burns had been terrified of fire in any form. They had just been accepted for auror training, had shared a dorm. Graves had woken Burns from countless nightmares, had talked him out of quitting training. They had spent their evenings practicing fire freezing spells, and Graves had spent hours watching until they both had been able to conjure flames without anyone going into panic.  
  
“You helped me a lot, back then”, Burns breaks the silence. “And I know it's different, but if there's anything I can do …”  
Graves gives him a thin smile. “Thank you, I appreciate that. It's just memories, I'll have to live with them.”  
Burns nods. “Well, if you want to have any distraction, I happen to know a certain young witch who'd be excited to hear from you.”  
Mary, his goddaughter, is in her first year at Ilvermorny. He really should send her a letter, ask how her classes are going, if she has settled into her house, if she's found friends. “I haven't given her anything for Christmas.”  
“You promised her an owl for her second year”, Burns reminds him. Graves wants to argue that an owl one gets in summer is hardly a Christmas present, but Burns is faster. “That is more than enough, really, an animal and everything that comes with it could even count for both Christmas and birthday. Oh, and speaking of owls – yours is waiting at the owlery. He turned up at my flat in the beginning of December, and when I took him here to give him back to you, he so obviously disliked being around you that it got us all thinking. I brought him to the owlery and a few days later, we caught Grindelwald.”  
Graves smiles. Of course Rupert would instantly sense that there was something wrong, that Grindelwald was a different person, despite transfiguration and polyjuice potion. Being the chicken of the Graves family owl, he had known Rupert since the little chicken had left his egg, and he had been living with Graves in New York for five years. “I hope you put that into the record.”  
“I don't think so”, Burns says. “But you could always write an addition to the record. If you get bored or have too much time.”  
A glance at his desk full of parchments. He hasn't even made it through half of them, and it's almost time for lunch. “I doubt I will", he sighs.  
Burns laughs. “I will leave you to it, then.” He's almost out of the door when he says. “In case nobody told you yet – we decided to have a welcome back team lunch at one, see you then.”  
The door closes, he breathes in and out. It's almost a normal day.

Sitting in the cafeteria, Graves almost doesn't have time for his lunch because he constantly gets approached by colleagues from other departments. The aurors and the President are the only ones who know what really happened, for everyone else, he had taken time off to deal with an emergency in his family. Although he has always been a very private person, people still feel the need to ask about his absence. He assures everyone his family is fine, smiles as politely as he can manage and tries to concentrate on the food. Goldstein, sitting across him, tells them about a weekend that she had spent with her sister at a beach, like a very short holiday, and Burns takes the opportunity to remind everyone, including the Director, to keep the department calendar up to date. They all know that Burns did this on purpose, openly reminding him that there is the concept of employees taking time off now and then. Of course there are birthdays and Christmas, but those are the only occasions when it makes sense to him to stay away from work.  
“I wonder”, says O'Toole slowly, “if I could take a whole month of.”  
“If you have enough extra hours, of course you can.” Burns’s seriousness seems to irritate O’Toole. He looks like he wants to say something but stays silent.  
Marshall lets sugar fall into her coffee and takes the discussion a step further. “You can write all my reports for a week”, she offers. “After that you'll definitely feel like you deserve a month off.” Fayden tries to disguise his laugh as a cough, and O’Toole draws a face. “I shouldn't have asked”, he mumbles and stares into his cup of coffee.  
“We should get back to work”, Graves decides. “So you can start collecting your extra hours, O’Toole.” He bites back a laugh, can see Burns and Marshall do the same. It's good to be back.

_Notes found in the study reveal Grindelwald's further plans: to recruit an army using the Imperius, to overthrow President Pickquery and to install himself as the leader of a radicalised wizarding community. He aims for complete segregation from the No-Majs and wants to give more rights to pure blood families. Letters from Grindelwald's followers in the United Kingdom of Great Britain, France and the USSR prove his involvement into various crimes committed against at both magical and No-Maj law in the last few months, starting with the attack on the Central Office of Magic in Moscow (12 June 1926)._

Graves puts the report down and rubs his temples. Reading has made him tired, and there's slight pain sitting in his forehead. At least he has made it through most of the pile that Jackson had given him in the morning. He'd be done with reading by Thursday morning when he'd have his appointment with Pickquery to discuss the matter, although there's not much to discuss. The USSR will transfer Grindelwald to their country and deal with him in whichever way they see fit. Graves and his team, they will try to smash as many of the follower groups as possible, just like aurors in France, Great Britain and everywhere else. They'd agree on new security policies, and some countries would work more closely together than others. Everyone knows that, despite having abolished the death penalty, the USSR has very strict laws, and he hopes they'll give Grindelwald the hardest punishment they have on offer. He'd certainly deserve it. Graves checks his watch and decides to call it a day. He can’t concentrate on anything anymore anyway, and he still needs to pick up Rupert from the owlery. Trying to keep his memories at bay, he sorts the parchments into two new piles. One he’ll bring back to their archive, and the one he'll read tomorrow.

The owlery takes up the entire attic. The ministry has its own owls living there, and MACUSA’s employees can let their own birds stay there when they are away on business trips. The many small windows don’t have any glass in them, and when Graves closes the door after himself, he needs a few seconds to get used to the dim and cold atmosphere. There are so many owls sitting on perches or in nest boxes that it’s impossible to spot Rupert among them.  
“Can I help you, Sir?” A beast department worker comes towards him, carrying his wand as torch and a bag with owl food.  
“I’m looking for Rupert, he’s been here since December because I’ve been away for a while. He’s a barred owl”, Graves explains.  
The older man nods. “He might still be in here, it’s a bit early to go hunting, even for barred owls. I usually keep them the back of the owlery, that’s where they like it best, all huddled together at a more quiet place. What’s the ring number? NYC, I presume?” He takes a large book from a shelf in the wall, turns a few pages.  
“NYC-PEG-2705.” Graves ducks his head as a large owl comes through one of the windows and watches the beast department employee scan the pages. It takes a minute until he’s found the right note, and he leads Graves through the narrow aisles. Charmed dustpans and brushes clean up the owl dirt, a never-ending job. They stop in front of a large nesting box. Black eyes blink curiously from the dark, and Graves immediately knows it’s Rupert. “He might be a bit hesitant to come to you because you left him alone for so long. Take as much time as you need. And maybe some of those will help.” The caretaker hands him a small bag of owl treats, leaves a lantern with him and retreats back into a different part of the room.

Graves and his owl stare at each other. “I’ve come to take you home, Rupert. It’s really me this time, I promise”, he whispers. “It was very clever of you to fly to Burns, that helped find me. Thank you for helping.” The owl only blinks. He is clearly sulking, has every right to be. “I am really sorry I was gone for so long. That won’t happen again, I promise.”  
Rupert turns his head when he hears the rustling of the paper bag. He eyes the piece of owl treat Graves holds in his hands, and climbs out of the nesting box. Sitting on the perch in front of it, Rupert seems to consider if he wants to accept the offer. He stretches—and pinches Graves’s finger before quickly snatching the treat out of it. The injury is nothing a quick Episkey can’t heal. After a few more treats, Rupert seems appeased, allows Graves to touch him. “I hope you had a good time here, but you can come back now, it’s safe again. Would you bring this letter home for me?” He tickles the owl’s head, and lets him eat one last treat before tying a piece of parchment with his own name and his apartment’s address on it to Rupert’s leg. With the help of a Lumos, he finds his way back to the owlery’s entry where he leaves the bag of owl treats before he apparates straight home, makes his daily cup of herbal tea and waits on the terrace until he sees Rupert appear on the darkening sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> \- Grindelwald's first attack was in Moscow because, at least in this story, he was born in what is now Russia


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your feedback, it's amazing that you like our fanfic that much and that you take the time to leave your thoughts or give kudos.
> 
> Here's a Newt chapter for you, we hope you like it.
> 
> Since I am still stressed and I don't want to make promises I can't keep, the next chapter will come online on September 24th.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**11**

 

He's already cleared his office and put the last reports in William's post box. It feels a bit strange, knowing that he'll only come back if he's needed for particular cases. He checks his watch. Half an hour until the others show up. Nobody in their department starts before half past eight – others in the building do. Newt knocks on one of the cellar doors and grins when he hears high voices talk excitedly. He gives them a few seconds before he enters. “Good morning everyone!”

“Master Scamander, good morning.” Wendy bows, and looks at him with her big green eyes. “We'll bring the tea and scones you requested right up, don't worry. The tea just needs another minute.”

“That's okay, nobody's there yet anyway. Thanks again for helping out. I actually came to say goodbye to you. It's my last day here, and I didn't want to leave without thanking you for your excellent service.” The compliment causes positive chaos among the house elves. Some offer him sweets, one prepares tea for him, others tell him how sad it is to see him go. Even after all this time it still amuses and confuses him how happy they become when receiving a few kind words. He has never understood that some wizards or witches can feel entirely indifferent towards creatures that serve them. Hufflepuffs having a common room close to the kitchens had led to Newt quickly becoming friends with the Hogwarts elves. At first it had been difficult to accept that they genuinely liked serving people, that it is in their nature, but conversations and time had helped him understand their point of view. House elves had been the first creatures he had taken notes on that went beyond the gnome and hippogriff drawings of his childhood.

Just like at Hogwarts, Newt has earned the loyalty of Wendy and her colleagues by treating them with the respect that any creature deserves, by learning their names and thanking or simply greeting them. One of the first things he's ever learned about house elves is that refusing anything they prepare is an insult to them. So he sits down, accepts the scone that Mindy brings and the tea that Wendy pours him. He tells them about his book that will come out in two weeks, and they all demand to know what he's written about their species. Before he goes upstairs again Newt has to make promises: that he'll give them a copy of his book, that he will interview them if he needs more information on house elves, that he'll say hello to Mindy's cousin Bobby and Elly’s distant relative Jacky if he travels up to Hogwarts, that he will come by whenever he's at the Ministry. He thanks them again, and goes upstairs again to wait for his colleagues.

“Thanks for organising the snack, Newt! Excited about it being your last day? Saw the advertisement at Flourish and Blotts, looks great!” Janet lets her plate float to her desk and sips on her tea.  
William comes in, carrying some of the papers that Newt had handed in earlier. “Morning you two; thanks for those, Newt.”  
“Nothing to thank me for, it was our deal that I do paperwork until the book release.” Wormes had convinced him to have a dragon on the cover because it is by far the most popular creature. Red and gold are not exactly Hufflepuff colours, but Janet is right, it does look fantastic.  
“Well, Scamander”, Greg comes into the room, half-eaten scone in his hand, “are you already looking forward to answering all sorts of ridiculous questions about yourself? How's your brother, how was your time at Hogwarts, what are you enjoying most about being a bestselling author?”  
Newt grimaces. They all know that he'd prefer if the media concentrated more on the creatures instead of on the one writing about them. Ever since Newt had told the department that he'd write a book, Greg had teased him, had kept mentioning all the unwanted attention he'd get. It was okay, though – if he wasn't making fun of most people around him, Greg made for a good colleague. “To answer your questions: I’m not too excited about answering all the stupid things people will ask, Theseus is as stressed as always, the best thing about Hogwarts were all the creatures in the forest, and I think I'll be happy about the fact that I won't have to read any of your records anymore. Your handwriting is terrible.”  
Greg laughs about his. “We’ll miss you doing half of our paperwork, too, won’t we, Janet?”  
Their colleague hums in agreement, sips on her tea.  
“You know we’ll always welcome you back with open arms, you and all your creatures”, William says. “And I’m also looking forward to working with you as consultant.”  
Newt gives his colleagues a smile. “Thank you all, for everything. I’ve always enjoyed being part of the department, and I’m sure we will see each other again and again, even if I’m not a permanent member of the team anymore. I obviously don’t know how my book release will go, but I’ll give my best to promote our work as much as I can while I have the attention of the media.”  
Greg grins. “Just answer every single question with ‘Our department needs trainees and if you read my book, you’ll find out that dragons are not the only interesting creatures we have on offer.’ Eventually, people might believe you.”  
“Yes, Newt”, Janet agrees, “tell people there are other exciting creatures, like flobberworms or puffskeins.” They all laugh. He will definitely not mention those, and he will miss his colleagues, that’s for sure.

Newt doesn’t even have to look up from his notes to know that it’s Iris tapping on the glass. He fumbles for his wand, opens the window, and casts a protection charm on his skin. The owl comes flying in, sinks her claws in his shoulder. She gently butts her head against his. “Do you have a letter for me? Thanks for bringing it”, he mumbles, loosening the parchment from her leg. Iris chitters happily when Newt buries his fingers deep in her feathers, ruffles them. With the other hand, he unfolds the letter. It’s one of Wormes’s, the kind the publisher has sent once a week since the publishing process had gathered speed. He writes that the preparations are going well and that he’s promised _The Daily Owl_ the first exclusive interview. Everything else, the letter says, would surely develop after the publication and the signing session at Flourish and Blotts.  
Both of them know they could get far more publicity, could have arranged more interviews by now. According to Wormes, one good interview is all they need in order to get people to buy his book. _The Daily Owl_ is just perfect because its American subsidiaries could automatically get him a first wave of attention before the release there, two weeks after the date set for Britain and Ireland. It is all so soon, only one month until his book will be published on the two most important markets. The thought makes Newt nervous, both in a good and a slightly panicked way.

“A broom is really no place for you. I can't guarantee you'll be safe in my breast pocket when I'm flying.” Pickett doesn't look too happy sitting on the tree's branch, he turns his body away from Newt. “Oh, you're offended? Well, you have plenty of time to sulk in peace now. I'll come check up on you when we're in Wales.” He takes a last walk through the case, cuddles Dougal and lets the mooncalves sniff his hands. They are all well provided with food, they'll be okay. Closing the suitcase from the outside, he shrinks it and puts it into the little bag in which he keeps broom cleaning supplies and an emergency kit. The invisibility spell needs a few seconds to come into effect. Holding the broom between his legs, Newt watches first the handle then his fingers disappear.  
He'd always liked flying. Just like in most families, he and Theseus had been given the usual children's brooms as soon as they had been able to walk. And as soon as they had had brooms, they'd spent whole afternoons passing quaffles or anything that could be thrown and caught over the lawn of the Scamander estate. On his eleventh birthday, the present had been a broom for older children, one that could fly higher and faster. Newt had frequently scared his mum by almost crashing into the kitchen window, he'd flown with the hippogriffs, their wings brushing his cheek, and he'd been a decent chaser on Hufflepuff’s team. Even after having passed his apparition test, he didn't let his broom collect dust in a corner. Flying, at least in Newt's opinion, made you feel something that came close to the feeling of sleeping under an open sky, a freedom that wasn't easy to find otherwise. There are hardly any clouds in the sky, the combination of biting winter wind and sunshine on his face makes Newt smile. Conditions are perfect, he'll arrive just in time for dinner. Taking off, he feels happiness and excitement bubbling in his stomach.

The green, brown and blue of Snowdonia's National Park stretches on for miles and miles. The fences that surround the Dragon Research Centre are nothing but small black lines. Newt starts to descend, blinks a few drops of cloudy mist away. There is the main building with its offices, the large conference room and the laboratories downstairs. Next to it the flats for the staff, and, just across the meadow, the cages. Whenever they find one, or the Ministry asks for their help, the dragon gets transported here, gets a health checkup and treatment if necessary. Before being released again, each creature gets a magical tracking system attached to their neck. It might not seem like much or beneficial work, but it helps the wizarding community gain important knowledge. Hunted and feared by many, dragons have turned out to be surprisingly social creatures with strict hierarchies that inhabit large territories. Pinning down their location makes it easier to study their behaviour or to find dead animals that can be used for potions, gloves or wands. Newt's feet touch the ground, slowly appearing again.

The entrance hall with its broom closet looks just like it did six years ago. He pulls his suitcase out of the small bag, locks his broom away. It already feels like he's visiting the house of an old friend. His time at the Dragon Research Centre had marked the shift from theoretical to more hands-on work with creatures. Just like everybody else, he’d started as a research assistant before getting assigned his own project, hatching a Common Welsh Green that had been rejected by the mother. It hadn't taken too long to develop the idea of having a sanctuary for all kinds of creatures. Newt lets his suitcase grow back again, and knocks on Dafydd’s door.  
His former colleague is sitting on the floor, circling spots on a large map of the United Kingdom. “Oh, heya”, he says. “Do you think it's a good idea to suggest relocation of a Hebridean Black to the Scottish Highlands? We have a young one we want to release into the wild, but all the islands are already in use and we don’t need any fighting for territories.”  
Newt sighs, puts his suitcase under the table. Hebridean Blacks are difficult to handle and very picky about their habitats. They want the sea surrounding them, they want the rough island wind, but no other dragons around them, except during mating season. “Orkney has a few uninhabited islands, doesn’t it? I know it’s not the Hebrides, but at least it’s in Scotland.” He traces the outline of one island with his wand. Dafydd hums, nods slowly.  
“That might be a good idea, yeah. I’ll talk it over with the Scottish clans. Thanks for the idea, and thanks for coming. Do you want to help feed our three beasts before going to the pub? I could also give you the key to my flat, if you want to bring your luggage there.” The word _pub_ sounds rather tempting, but Newt doesn’t even have to think about his answer. Standing next to each other, they wrap themselves in the heavy fireproof uniforms and carry buckets full of fresh meat from the fridges in the cellar to the cages outside. “I saw you're still running around with that old suitcase of yours. Don’t you want to get a new one, a bigger one?” Dafydd had been the first person who’d known about the animal sanctuary, the first who’d ever been in the suitcase with him.  
“Why would I?”, Newt asks. “It might look a bit battered, but I’ll hold on to it until it falls apart. And magic makes it bigger on the inside anyway, I don’t think that depends on the suitcase’s size.”  
A young Antipodean Opaleye watches them as they approach the cage. She roars excitedly, nostrils trembling, taking in the smell of sheep meat. With the help of their wand, they let the cadaver slide over the ground – it only takes the dragon a few seconds to sink her claws into it. The Hebridean Black and the Common Welsh Green are provided for just as quickly.  
Newt watches Dafydd sign the feeding lists. He still has to check on his own beasts, but that shouldn’t take too much time.

“Want to come to the pub, Pickett?” The bowtruckle doesn’t answer, turns away. Newt shrugs, and leaves a few woodlice on the tree. The diricawls get a mixture of maggots and crop, the young occamies get their rats, the graphorns and Frank get chunks of meat. It takes less time, with Dafydd taking care of Iris and Dougal, checking on the mooncalves and the murtlaps. Maybe he should hire an assistant.

The _Red Dragon_ is already crowded when they get there. A few tourists sit among the locals, a radio plays music. Dafydd raises his arm, waves of a group of people sitting in the back of the room. Newt thinks some are familiar faces. “I’ll get us cawl, rarebits and beer. That are all colleagues over there, do you want to join them or would you rather we kept to ourselves?”  
“We can sit with them, I don’t mind.” He didn’t fly all the way to Wales just to be anti-social. It’s nice to ask, though. “I’ll have Dark Brains as always, and the next round is on me.” Newt makes his way through the tables. He recognises Gwen and her partner whose name he’s forgotten, Benjamin, Luke and Ann. “Evening, all of you.”  
Gwen turns to him, grins. “Newt! I thought that was you, come, sit down with us. You know the old team and my husband, right? The new one’s Jamie, he’s started just before Christmas, specialises in non-European dragons. Jamie, that’s Newt. He left our beautiful country almost two years ago to accept a job at the Ministry – don’t ask me why, I still don’t understand it – and comes to visit every few months when he’s had enough of London. He’s also the person who made all those drawings of dragon scales that hang in the tea kitchen.”  
“Nice to meet you, mate.” Jamie looks up from his plate. “The drawings are pretty good.” He gives an approving nod that Newt returns. He feels absurdly proud that nobody has redecorated their kitchen yet. Luke moves his bag from a chair to the floor. “It’s great that being able to draw a beast isn’t a requirement for the job here. If I drew dragons they’d be just about good enough to count as abstract art.” Next to him, Ann snorts into her drink, makes them all laugh.  
Dafydd comes over, carrying a tray with their soups, toasts and, most importantly, beers. He casts a quieting spell on the group so they sit among muggles and talk freely. “A toast” he announces, “I'd say we toast to you, Newt, because you solved my relocating problem earlier today. To myself for the same reason, to Ann because she was so nice to tidy up the folder chaos earlier this week, to Gwen because of her finished study on dragon eggs, to Jamie for the way he handles the Opaleye, to Luke for being in time for all meetings this week, and to Ben because he might fire me if there’s no toast to him. And to Andrew because, despite not having anything to do with creatures, he's a regular at our Friday pub meetings. _Iechyd da_ , everyone.”  
“A lot of reasons for drinking”, Ben remarks, raising his glass with all of them, “My toast had the worst explanation, I expect a better one next week, Dafydd, or I’ll see if I can get you fired for disrespecting me. Cheers.” Newt is glad to see Jamie grinning – being able to laugh at Ben’s dry jokes means he's fully integrated into the team.  
  
The first sip of beer tastes just like old times, and the quality of the food hasn’t changed since he’s last been here. He focuses on eating while the others start to talk about quidditch. The next National Cup is coming up and, according to Andrew and Gwen, the Caerphilly Catapults will win it. “They were fantastic last year, and they'll be even better this time, just you wait.”  
“If they were so fantastic why did the Appleby Arrows kick them out in the first round?”, Luke asks, grinning. He’s always been the most passionate about quidditch, even has a large poster in his office.  
Gwen rolls her eyes. “That was just bad luck.” Andrew puts an arm around her, his fingers almost brushing Newt’s shoulder. “Would all be different if you were on the team, darling, eh?” She laughs, and Newt wonders if she also has a creature as a soulmark, a Common Welsh Green maybe? Wouldn’t it be funny if everyone working with creatures would have a creature soulmark?  
He’d spent most of his flight here asking himself if he should tell Dafydd about the paw on his arm; he hasn’t found an answer to that question yet. The pub is not the best place to talk about that anyway, not with all those people around and Luke still insisting that the Appleby Arrows will win. Nobody agrees with him, no matter how often he tells them of their past victories. As a Scot, Jamie seems to ignore teams south of Hadrian's wall; Gwen and Andrew are far too Welsh to consider an English team any good. Even Ann, who has never cared much about quidditch, shakes her head at Luke’s Appleby praise. Newt doesn’t understand the passion for them either, they are not even the best English team at the moment. Benjamin seems to share that opinion, mumbles something about every single statistic from the last few years speaking against this. Dafydd just watches the discussion and says he doesn't care about which wins as long as he gets to see a good and fair game.  
“Let’s make a bet, Luke”, Newt offers. “If the Appleby Arrows get further than the Wimbourne Wasps, I’ll pay for all your drinks the next time we go to the pub.”  
Luke grins. “You better start putting some money away, then.” They seal the deal with a handshake. Newt will have to remember to check the newspapers of wherever he will be during the tournament, and then he’ll have to come back and spend an entire evening drinking at his former colleague’s expense.

Walking back to the flat on the Research Centre’s property, the two of them are alone again. It’s quiet and dark, the cloudy sky doesn’t let any stars shimmer through. “Thanks for the invitation, and for letting me stay at your place.”  
“Thank you for visiting”, Dafydd replies. “You can come here anytime to feed a dragon or two. You know, if you want a break from being a consultant and do some proper work with your dragonology degree.” He sounds teasing now, and Newt laughs. Proper work … He hopes being a consultant will include plenty of that. “Aside from your job situation, how are you?”  
Newt hums, looks into the dark landscape for a moment. “I’m excited, but also a bit nervous about the release and the whole consultant idea. I really want this, I want to travel, to help, to explore. I’ll definitely go to Arizona, have a thunderbird to release. And I have a soulmate to find, I guess. Brought a mark back home.” He’s said it, he's actually said it out loud in front of another human being. There's a sensation in his stomach that Newt can't identify. Maybe it's relief, maybe it's panic.  
“A soulmark?”, his friend echos. “Oh, that’s great for you, congrats. Any idea who it could be?”

It’s someone he doesn’t know much about, someone who’d tried to stand up to Grindelwald, someone who’s probably still alive somewhere. He can’t bring himself to tell Dafydd about that, though. Thinking it makes Newt shiver already, and he wouldn’t know how to put it into words anyway. “No”, he says instead. “At first, I thought it might be Tina, the friend who helped me with my creatures, but she doesn’t have a mark. I hope I’ll find whoever it is. With my luck, I could have them right in front of me and not notice.”  
Dafydd shakes his head. “Won’t happen. All the stories saying that you’ll know, they are true. It might take you a while to figure out that another person caused that feeling, but it will definitely be there. Trust me.” He pulls his keys out of his pocket.  
“Speaking from personal experience?”, Newt asks.  
His friend looks smug. “I do, actually. Her name’s Sharon, met her two months ago. Works at Cleansweep in Cardiff.”  
“The broomstick manufacturers? Think you can get me a discount on their products?” He laughs about the way Dafydd shakes his head. “At least promise I can meet her. So, you met her and you just know?”  
“Kind of, yeah. I can’t explain it, really can’t. But you’ll know what I mean. If you two are compatible, that’s a different question. Or if you want a relationship with each other. If you don’t, that’s also not the end of the world. My parents, for example, share a mark, and they really tried, but divorced when I was seven. I think that’s better than just being with someone because of a mark you don’t have any influence on.”  
Newt breathes in and out. How should he know if he wants a relationship when he’s never had one? And then there’s the other person and their feelings, of course. He really shouldn’t worry about that, there’s no point in it.

Dafydd unlocks the door to his flat. His Lumos illuminates the hallway, they peel off their jackets, untie their shoes. “I’ll make tea, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but already disappears to the small kitchen. When Newt follows, milk, sugar and two cups with the Dragon Research Centre logo are already on the counter. “I hope what I’ve said about my parents doesn’t make you feel bad. There are plenty of counter-examples, soulmates who are great couples.”  
Of course there are. Gwen and Andrew, the girl from school and her Slytherin boyfriend. Janet and her partner, his own parents. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have to find my soulmate first, anyway. It was good to talk to you, I haven’t told anyone else yet. Here …” Newt rolls up his sleeve. In the dim candlelight, the paw is dark, looks almost like it’s moving.  
“Well”, Dafydd says, grinning at him, “I expected a bowtruckle, but this one’s nice as well, I guess.” Newt laughs. A bowtruckle … Pickett would probably get insanely jealous. No, fate made just the right choice with giving him the wampus paw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> \- in memory of Dobby and Winky, I decided to let the houseelf names end in -y.
> 
> \- Probably obvious, but still worth mentioning that the Dragon Research Centre is in Wales and the pub is called The Red Dragon because the red dragon is a symbol of Wales.
> 
> \- Iechyd da is the Welsh "cheers".


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people!  
> We know, that there are still comments to answer—we're very sorry about that, but we promise we'll get to it.  
> Thank you all for the feedback, it's very encouraging, especially since I've had to deal with a combination of writer's block and too little time to write.  
> I'll stick to the two week rhythm because that helps to keep the pressure on a bearable level. So the next chapter will come online on October 8th.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

With a clicking noise, the lock snaps shut. All files are back on their shelves. It feels relieving not to have them on his desk anymore. The notes he took while reading are enough for the meeting with the President, Graves doesn't need long records of Grindelwald's cruelty lying around. He suppresses a yawn. It’s just after lunch, but if he could, he'd go home now. The night was too short, and going from being off work to full-time might be a bit more demanding than Graves wants to admit. He checks the time – just enough time to get a coffee and the application files for the job interviews. He's decided to have all of them in a row, partly because he wants to get it over with, partly because it's easier to compare them and make a decision that way.

 “Marshall”, he asks while knocking on her office's open door, “the applicants will arrive soon, starting in fifteen minutes. Could you be the one to bring them to my office?”  
She looks up from her parchment. “Sure, Director. I'll let the reception know they should notify me when the first one arrives. Oh, and could I get a few minutes in the next meeting? Burns and I have first results concerning the substance trading we'd like to present before the weekend.”  
Burns had mentioned something similar. “I’ve already put it on the schedule”, he promises. “I gave you the last thirty minutes, if I don't remember that on Friday, just interrupt me. I'll get a quick coffee now, it would be great if you could tell me when you're going downstairs to get the first candidate so I can finish it before they come up.” With a nod towards her, he makes his way to the coffee machine.

The first candidate is a young man, rather bland. His answer to why he wants to become an auror sounds like he's learned it by heart, and when Graves wants to know what his favourite subject at Ilvermorny was, he takes so long to say Transfiguration that it's hard to believe. The grades are good enough, and it's very honourable to want to help, but there is no passion behind it. He'd drop out of training after the first term. When they shake hands, Mister Kyle looks like he already knows he'll receive a polite letter of refusal. Graves wonders what made him apply in the first place.

Miss Archibald's handshake is firm, she accepts the water he offers and seems rather confident. She thanks him for the invitation and says she's excited to be here. Coming from a rather small town in the Midwest, New York is probably a lot to take in. Graves wonders what made her parents call her Merlina and if she has siblings called Arthur, Lancelot or even Percival. He takes a look at her CV. “Why should we hire you, Miss Archibald?”  
“Because you need me”, comes right back.  
Graves blinks. He hadn't expected such a straightforward answer. She looks like she didn't expect herself to be so bold either.  
“What I mean is that our community needs more aurors. Grindelwald's rise is a threat to our society, and I think we need a strong network of aurors throughout the country to be able to put a stop to his people. I applied because I think aurors can make a difference, and I want to be among those who stand for a safe community. At school, there was not one subject that I didn't like. I chose Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts as majors, but going by my grades it could as well have been Potions and Charms. You need qualified people, I am qualified. So why not hire me?”  
Graves has to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from breaking into a grin. She's right. They do need qualified staff, and her grades are excellent. She says she expects training to he very demanding on both the physical and the psychological level, and she's right again. Miss Archibald's questions are the usual – will she spend all her time at the training centre or will she work here as well, will she have to find her own flat, how much will they pay? MACUSA holds flats near the training centre just over the border in New Jersey, she'll begin working here after her third term, and Graves thinks he can see her eyes widen in surprise when he tells her how much she will earn. He thanks her, says she’ll receive a letter at the end of the month, and as soon as she's left his office, he circles her name on his list. Five more candidates. He checks his watch, opens the window. If each of them gets half an hour of interview time, he can leave the building together with the last candidate. Graves closes his eyes for a second.

Marshall comes into his office, a man almost twice as tall as her trailing behind her. “Mister Burrett, Director”, she says with a unusually tight-lipped smile. The handshake is promising already.  
“Thank you, Marshall.” She leaves again and seems to take the candidate’s eyes with her. The young man stares so obviously that Graves wonders if nobody has ever taught him any manners or at least the basics of subtlety. It takes a quiet minute of Graves watching the candidate watch Marshall disappear into her office until Mister Burrett seems to remember that he's not alone in the room, that he's at his own job interview. The young man straightens his back, but instead of an apology for his behaviour, he shows a cheeky smile. Graves looks at him. “Take a seat please, Mister Burrett, and tell me—what makes you want to be an auror?”  
“It’s the closest you can be to a superhero, it gives you that certain kind of thrill, I think. And women like it, don’t they?”  
If Marshall were still here, she’d probably push his chair through the window and let him hang there upside down until he’d apologise. Graves wonders if he should give the man a lecture on MACUSA’s workplace harassment policy or on the way you should act in front of a possible future employer. “Well, Mister Burrett”, he says instead, looking straight at him, “as you can probably understand, lots of people want to become aurors, and we really only need the best students. You had a B in Defence Against the Dark Arts, why not an A?” He watches the young man trying to hide his surprise and discomfort. The explanations are just as expected—the other marks make up for it, the teacher was not fair, the exam was unusually hard, he can learn more and better if he gets accepted into the programme. Graves wants to yawn. He politely listens to Burrett go on about his ideas of auror training and all the good things he could bring to the team before he ends the interview earlier than he usually would. He brings Burrett to the department’s door, lets him find his way back downstairs on his own.

On the way back to his office, he stops at the office where Marshall and Burns sit over pieces of parchment together. “I’m sorry to disturb”, he says. “I just wanted to apologise for the last candidate, Marshall. If you want to go after him and turn him into some kind of animal, I’ll give you an alibi.”  
“Thank you, Director.” When Burns asks what happened, she just rolls her eyes. “Too much testosterone, not enough brain.”  
Burns sips on his coffee. “Oh”, he says. “I could support the alibi, if necessary”.  
Marshall laughs. “I’d prefer if you could tell me how we’re supposed to stop the magical community abusing the No-Majs inventions when anyone with a cauldron could theoretically re-produce the illegal substances.” Burns draws a face and Graves decides to leave them alone before one of them can ask him for his opinion.  
It has started to rain, heavy drops are steadily running down the large windows of MACUSA's offices. He uses the unexpected break to have a look at the post that Rupert had delivered earlier, a few letters along with the _Time-Turner_ and the British _Daily Owl_. In Europe, several aurors have managed to track down a large group of Grindelwald’s followers. The movement that Grindelwald started will keep them all busy for a long time, and they can only succeed if they work together. Graves makes a mental note to contact the Mexican authorities so they can figure out how to protect the shared border against dark magicians. Maybe they can talk to each other during one of the coffee breaks at the conference in the coming week. He flips the pages. The rest of the newspapers is of no interest—the latest gossip on Quodpod players and a few advice columns in the American version, even more gossip and pages full of Quidditch tables in the British one. Graves folds the papers and puts them on one side of his table when he sees Marshall come to his office, this time with a young woman in tow. No matter whichever way their conversation will turn, her chances of getting hired are not too bad.

The early darkness of winter has already taken over, and he waves his hand several times to light one candle after the other. Graves opens the letter that had sat on the mantelpiece for a few days until he’d put it in his briefcase this morning. He is grateful that his mother doesn't send him Christmas invitations anymore after he had once told her that he feels pressured by them. Grindelwald would probably have travelled up to Vermont to kill off the whole family if he’d known how much they mean to him. Graves breaks the family seal on the back of the parchment, and nods at Marshall who walks by his open door.  
His mother writes the usual, says they all understand, of course, that his work is demanding and time-consuming and that he can’t always make time for the family, but she still would have liked to see him at Christmas, she asks if he'll come see them soon to make up for the lost time, and she wants to know if there is anything new in his life. He knows he should make an effort to keep in touch, should write longer replies and visit more often, but he's also grateful that his family is willing to put up with his infrequent visits. And like always, they want to know what's happening in his life. Maybe, if he finds time after the conference, he can spend a weekend up in Vermont. He'll plan that later and write a reply. Now he has other things to. One more interview to conduct, a young man has the chance to be better than the preceding four candidates. He folds the letter, shoves it into his pocket and takes the application papers of Mister Wallace.

He’d make a good addition to the team, that much is obvious after a few minutes. Just like Miss Archibald before him, he gives good reasons for hiring him, he has excellent grades, seems genuinely interested in the work. He is the first candidate who has more than the usual questions. What is, in Graves opinion, the hardest part of the training, will they only work in New York, how much of the work consists of being in the office, how much of being out in the streets?  
“If there are no more questions, Mister Wallace”, Graves says, “I’d like to thank you for applying, and MACUSA will get back to you within two weeks.” They both get up, and Graves takes his briefcase. It’s finally time to go home.  
“Thank you for inviting me, Director.” They say goodbye, and as Graves draws his hand back, he notices a small symbol on Mister Wallace’s skin, right next to where the thumb meets the hand. A soulmark. It’s unprofessional to ask about it, and the man is leaving anyway, but Graves wonders if Wallace has already found his partner, if he can come home to feeling wanted and loved. On his own skin, the wampus is safely hidden under the shirt and suit jacket. There's nothing waiting for him, only the books on the table in the bedroom that he's paged through for hours by now and that never tell him anything new. There's a soulmate somewhere. The books can't help him. There's a risk. Graves pushes his chair back. There might be a chance.  
The department is almost empty, only Fisher and Goldstein are still sitting in an office together.  
“To the cells”, he tells the goblin in the lift. He has his left hand tightly gripped around his right arm.

It's been a long time since he's been down here. It's cold, the light of the torches creates long, wavering shadows. The atmosphere does its best to add to the slight headache, to the tenseness in his body. He knows it won’t get better, knows standing here for much longer will only make him feel worse. There is only one door between Grindelwald and himself now, and Graves knows that he shouldn’t be down here alone. If any of his aurors wanted to interrogate a suspect without having backup posted outside of the cell, he’d make them repeat everything they’ve ever learned about teamwork and safety.  
Burns is the person he’d most likely have chosen to accompany him, but then again, he is too good a friend to not ask questions, questions that Graves is not willing to answer. He has to do this on his own, has to prove to himself that he can face Grindelwald. Graves knows that what he's about to do is dangerous, but there's no other way to get the answers he needs. Layer after layer, Graves removes the Locking Spells. One last breath and he turns the key. He wraps himself in a protection charm before entering the room.

The cell is bigger than Graves had expected it to be. Although he’s used all of the Unforgivable Curses, Grindelwald has more comfort in here than the spare room at Graves’s house offered. There’s a mattress with a blanket and a pillow, there’s a wash basin, there are empty dishes. And between all this, sitting on the floor, is Grindelwald in his true form, the one that Graves has only seen in the newspapers until now. It’s difficult to imagine what he might look like as a somewhat civilised human being, not as gaunt, dirty and tired as he is now. And yet, even in the state he’s in, Grindelwald has this glint in his eyes that Graves knows all too well. They both breathe in at the same time, but Graves is quicker, he casts a Silencio.  
“Grindelwald”, he says. “When I let you speak, I don’t want your usual lies or any of your little stories. I want clear answers, nothing else. Do you understand?”  
Instead of nodding, Grindelwald looks at him, blinks slowly and tilts his head. He’s waiting, watches Graves unbutton the cuffs on his shirt and expose the soulmark. “You remember this, don’t you? I’ve read the files, you don’t have one since you don’t pretend to be me anymore. That means it is all mine.” Graves casts a Lumos, stares at his former tormentor. “You’ve told me all about how you’d find the person, and I’ve been wondering—did you?”  
The corners of Grindelwald’s mouth twitch for a second before he breaks into silent laughter. Graves finds himself holding his breath, and he looks at the cold stone walls to stay focussed. He takes the reaction as a yes, one that he had hoped for but not expected. “I will let you speak now.” A flick takes the Silencio away.

It takes a few seconds until Grindelwald has calmed down enough to speak. “Director”, he says, his voice dripping with false friendliness. “I was waiting for you. Did you read up on soulmarks and realised that I’m the key to finding your mate?”  
Graves rolls his eyes, flicks his fingers again. “I said I don’t want your stories. I want information, that’s all.”  
“Isn’t it funny”, Grindelwald answers as soon as he the second Silencio is lifted, “that I once again have you in my hand? You only want to know the relevant things, but if you don’t listen to everything I have to say, I won’t talk at all. But to come back to your question, Director—yes, I’ve met your soulmate. And you know what? I was surprised. But then on second thought … Still waters run deep. I should have known you prefer men.”  
The room seems to get warmer, or maybe it’s just Graves’s heart rate that is speeding up. “My soulmate is a man? Are you sure?” It’s been years since he’s had a male partner. He remembers the excitement that came with exploring a relationship with someone who wasn’t a woman. There are faint memories of how it felt to …  
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve seen his soulmark, and we’ve even talked. About you. I told him you’re his soulmate. Do you want to know what he did?”

What does it mean, they talked? Is it an auror? He has to be, since the conversation must have taken place after they captured Grindelwald. Nobody from his team, that's for sure. So Graves's soulmate is a foreign, male auror. That's something to begin with.

If Graves could have his way, he’d cast another Silencio and then leave the cell, not play these stupid games anymore. But Grindelwald is right, Graves has to listen to everything, needs every single piece of information he can get. “Yes, Grindelwald”, he sighs, “I want to know what he did.”  
Its both fascinating and disgusting to watch Grindelwald's face light up. His teeth shine white in the dark face and dim lights. “I thought it was ironic when I helped you get the mark, but this is even better, and it’s not even my doing. I saw the soulmark, and I wanted to spare him the disappointment, so I told your soulmate about you, Director. He didn't believe me, said I was lying. He’d heard about you being my victim, he said he’d never have someone as useless and weak as you. And then he left. Not only the cell or New York City—no, your soulmate left the country. He’s running from you, he doesn’t want you. Congratulations, Director. Or should I say: sorry, Director?” Grindelwald looks at him, seems pleased with himself while Graves takes in what he’s just heard.  
The blood that had been pumping through his heart a few seconds ago is now rushing through his ears. Graves can’t tell if those were lies, he can’t look at Grindelwald, he can’t talk anymore. It's not even unlikely that his soulmate would react with rejection, that he would decide against being with him. There is not a single good argument Graves can hold against it. And there is no need to say goodbye.

Sealing a cell from the outside is something trained aurors can do in their sleep. It doesn’t take Graves more than a few minutes, and yet it seems like it hours until he finally makes his way up to his office again. The department is empty, of course it is, it’s long past the usual working hours. He takes the briefcase, rushes downstairs again and apparates to his flat. Petting Rupert, undressing, showering, putting on a pyjama and making tea. Graves concentrates on every single task to keep his mind from wandering.  
Sitting in bed, he grabs a piece of parchment and a quill from the nightstand.  
_\- auror_  
_\- man_  
_\- left the country_  
_\- is not interested in being with me anyway_

The list is painfully short, and looking at it makes his stomach hurt. He really wants try and turn this around, but he can't. His soulmate could have visited him in hospital or at least left a note, he could have written a letter by now. Silence is an answer as well. Grindelwald was right in saying that leaving the country is the most drastic form of rejection one could possibly choose.  
Graves looks at his mark. He'll have to explain it to his parents, to Burns, to himself. _I have a soulmate_ , he'd have to say, _but we are not together because of what Grindelwald did to me, because of what I let_ _him do to me_.  
The wampus is still beautiful, and Graves knows he can't remove it, but he now wishes it were somewhere more hidden, on his back, behind his ear, anywhere that's easier to cover up.  
He lets the minutes in the cell run through his head. _Useless_ and _weak._ He remembers the day the mark appeared, remembers Grindelwald's threats, his sadistic joy at a describing how he'd kill the soulmate. At least he is safe now, the foreign auror. Staring at his arm, eyelids getting heavier with each passing minute, Graves tells himself that that's the most important thing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people!
> 
> Thank you so so much for giving over 200 kudos for this story so far! It's amazing to see how many people like our soulmate couple, and we love every kind of feedback we get.
> 
> Here's a Newt chapter for you. Our slow burn is still burning slowly, but we promise they'll meet soon(ish).  
> Because I have too much real life coming up, the next chapter will come online in the beginning of November, Sunday 5th.
> 
> Happy reading until then  
> shortbread

**12**

 

The occamy is almost as large as a basilisk. His gigantic head is resting on the grass, the snout pressed into Newt’s side just gently enough not to leave a bruise.  
“Do you think being a Hufflepuff has influenced your career? Why did you become a magizoologist? How can magizoology help us as wizarding community? Who did you write your book for? Can you tell us anything about upcoming projects?” The questions are not bad, easy to answer for him, and yet, he's nervous. If the journalist, for whatever reason, decides not to like him, she'll put that into words for everyone to read, and then nobody will buy his book. “You won't care how many copies I sell, him?”, Newt mumbles, lets his hand glide over the occamy’s scales. The creature blinks lazily. Newt should think of a name, not only for this one, but also for his siblings. Then again, names make it more difficult to let go of a creature when the time has come. Frank will be home in Arizona soon, and Newt already knows he'll miss the thunderbird terribly. Maybe the occamies will just stay what they are, it's difficult to differentiate them all anyway. He should go upstairs, change his clothes, get going, but it’s just so peaceful on the meadow, and it’s always good to get some bonding time with a creature. If he apparates, he has five more minutes.  
  
The tea is not cold enough to drink yet, but it’s still nice to have something in his hands. It calms him down. The book that the journalist got from the publisher lies on the table between them, the red cover still unblemished.  
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mister Scamander. As agreed with Mister Worme, we will send you a copy of the interview before publishing. It will first appear in the _Daily Owl_ , and then the _Time–Turner_ will publish it shortly before you publish in America. Do you have any questions before we start?” The journalist smiles at him, while her self–writing quill scribbles the date and _Interview Mr Newt Scamander, book release ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them’ (Obscurus Books)_ onto a roll of parchment. Newt shakes his head, sips on the tea. “Thank you for having me”, he says.  
“Mister Scamander; it’s – when people read this interview – one week until you publish your book _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , are you excited?”  
That’s an easy question. “I’m very excited, yes. The whole process of travelling, doing research and writing took me over a year, so I’m glad the work is finally done. But what’s more interesting for me is the reaction to my work. The book is a compact encyclopedia, giving an overview of creatures, and I hope people find it useful or interesting.”  
The journalist smiles at him, and Newt takes it as a sign that his answer wasn’t too bad. He watches the quill scratch over the parchment and takes a biscuit.  
  
“You describe it as first and foremost being a reference books for different creatures or beasts. How did you decide which ones you’d include?”  
Newt sips on his tea. “Well”, he says. “I began with the creatures that would be most familiar to people here in Britain, like goblins or centaurs. Creatures we’d have in our houses or we’d been told bedtime stories about. Besides that, I included creatures that are not as well–known but that I think are worth knowing about, and the smallest section are some of the most popular creatures from other continents – Asia, America or Africa.” For a second, he wonders if that’s already enough of a description.  
Newt watches the feather paint a full stop after his last sentence, but before he can ask if he should elaborate, the journalist seizes the chance: “America”, she repeats, and Newt already knows what's coming. “You spent more time there than you had planned, and helped to catch Gellert Grindelwald who had been wanted for quite some time. Did this experience, the close work with MACUSA, the American ministry of magic, influence your book?”  
This is probably not what they want to hear, but he's had enough of those questions, he doesn't want to go into the whole Grindelwald story again. “It did influence my book in both positive and negative ways. I did less research than I had planned to do, but I also got to meet some American colleagues and learned about their approaches to working with creatures, which was very interesting. My whole involvement in the Grindelwald case gets far more too much attention. I wish we’d focus more on the magical creatures and on the ways in which we can live with them.”  
“So you are no longer involved in the case?”, the journalist asks.  
Newt laughs. He doubts that MACUSA needs more than his initial testimony, and he hopes he never has to see Grindelwald again. “I’m the wrong Scamander brother for information on anything concerning Magical Security.” As soon as he’s said that, he wonders if that was a bad idea, if Theseus might have to answer questions now.  
He watches the journalist stir sugar into her tea, quickly checks the time. They still have a few minutes. She asks about his time at Hogwarts, tells him she’s also been at Hufflepuff, and they end up spending more time talking about their house than was probably planned. He tells her about his friendship with the house elves and centaurs, and how the first sight of merpeople had caused him nightmares. “Would you say your book is for school children as well as adults?”  
“Of course”, is Newt’s first reaction because he genuinely thinks that they could at least look at the illustrations. “The descriptions might be a bit boring, though. If I ever were to write a children's version, I'd make select the creatures carefully, and I’d try to find the most interesting facts, I guess. But at the moment I'm happy with one published book.” If this one sells well, he might be able to write another one, might manage to put one together that is less focused on the scientifc side of magizoology. He should talk to Worme about that.

“So after some time off, what will be your next project?”, the journalist pulls him out of his thoughts. Newt almost laughs at that.  
“Oh, I don't really take time off. I can't, I have a suitcase of creatures to take care of. It's something I enjoy, though, so I don't really care about how much of my time I spend tending to them. I don’t know which kind of research I’ll focus on next, but I will definitely start travelling again. I also work closely with the Ministry, and I' happily accept work they have for me.”  
The journalist nods approvingly, looks over her text. “As a last question: What do you hope your future will bring?”  
That’s a big question. He wants to release Frank into the wild, and find a good tree for the bowtruckles somewhere. He wants to find more and better ways to create habitats in his suitcase. He wants to find his soulmate – but he doesn't need the whole country to know that, does definitely not want to end up on even more gossip pages than he’s already on. “As you said before, _Fantastic Beasts_ is a book for domestic use, so I'll already be happy if it helps a wizard or witch to figure out what kind of creature lives in their garden. Apart from that, I’d just like to create general awareness for creatures, and of course it would also be great if my work could spark someone’s interest in magizoology and to make the subject wider known to the public.” He finishes his tea while the last words of the interview dry on the page and the parchment begins to roll itself.  
“Congratulations on your first interview!” The journalist shakes his hand. “I will send a copy of it to Mister Worme, and I will see you at _Flourish and Blotts_ soon. Personally, I am really looking forward to the release. I very much enjoyed reading the copy I got in preparation for our conversation.”  
Newt smiles. “Thank you for the first official feedback, and I'm looking forward to meeting you soon.” They leave her office together, and she shows him out to one of Diagon Alley's many backstreets.

The birds outside of Eylops Owl Emperium blink at him, and Newt stops to take a closer look at them. All of them are healthy and well–fed, feathers shiny and curiosity in their eyes. If he could, he’d buy them all, let them live in his suitcase. They’d like it there, they’d be able to fly around, sleeping in a real nest instead of in a cage. Of course owls are pets, but they do deserve as much freedom as possible, away from the streetlights of Muggle cities and the emissions of cars. With the transfiguration spells he had used in his suitcase, the shop could become a sort of aviary. Maybe he should suggest that to the shop’s owner. Somewhere in his pockets, Newt finds an owl biscuit. He breaks it into small pieces. “I’m sorry I can’t take you all with me”, he tells the birds, feeds them crumb after crumb.

He sharpens a new quill and opens his inkpot. An employee at _Flourish and Blotts_ , where he’d only stopped to get the monthly edition of the Magizoology Journal, has asked him to sign a few _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ copies beforehand and had somehow managed to convince Newt to take an entire box home. He has more than enough to do, has to change the bandage on Frank’s leg and needs to check the supplies in the shed. But no, he’ll be an author soon, a proper published one, and people will want to buy a signed version. He dunks the quill into the ink. Writing his own name on the half–title page makes him proud. This had been a dream for so long, and now it’s finally here, his book. He’s put the work into it, the research, the writing, the drawing, and the ink that slowly dries on the paper seems like a confirmation. He’s done it. He’s written the encyclopedia he would have loved to own as a child and during his time at Hogwarts.

A paw comes out from behind the box of books, slowly moves towards the teaspoon on the saucer. Newt puts his hand on it. “Harold, that’s mine. You have your own spoon, remember? And how did you manage to get out of the suitcase again?” If the niffler made it out, some of the others might follow soon, and it will be difficult to get them all down again. He grabs the niffler with a trained grip. “Come on, I’ll bring you back to your burrow, hm?” In its corner of the room, the suitcase is wide open and Dougal is crawling towards the stairs. “No, absolutely not, you can turn right around”, Newt tells him, blocking the way. The demiguise blinks at him before slowly following the order. “I promise I’ll stay around after feeding time.” He drops Harold off in the grass next to the bowtruckle tree, can feel Pickett grasp a strand of hair and settle down on his head.  
Upstairs, he locks the case, properly time. He needs to get it fixed before he starts travelling again. There’s a bird waiting outside, one of the Ministry’s official little owls. Pickett hurries to disappear into the shirt’s collar, and Newt makes sure to give him enough time before opening the window. He takes the digestive that he’d wanted to eat with his tea, puts it on the window sill and fills a saucer with water. While she’s busy enjoying her meal, Newt unties the parchment from the owl’s leg.  
  
_Dear Mister Scamander,_  
_we hereby confirm the following portkey_  
_From: Ministry of Magic, London, United Kingdom_  
_To: Magical Congress of the United States of America, New York City, United States of America_  
_Departure: Thursday, 17th of February 1927, 4 PM  
__We ask you to be at the check-in, office 01.846, at least one hour before the departure._

 _With kind regards_  
_Imogene MacLeod_  
_– Portkey Office, Department of Magical Transportation –_

Newt puts the letter on the table, next to the books. He takes a slip of parchment, scribbles down the dates:  
_07/02: publication UK, Flourish and Blotts_  
_17/02: portkey to NY (books for Tina, President)_  
_25/02: publication in USA_  
He’s asked Tina if he could live in their guest room for the rest of the month. She’d agreed, said he can come as often and stay as long as he wants to. And she’d written _it’s nice to hear that you miss us and the city so much_. Reading that had made Newt wonder if he shouldn’t tell Tina that it’s not only her company he likes, and that he doesn’t want to spend more time in New York because he likes the place so much. Since he’s spoken to Dafydd about the whole topic, he’s spent even more time thinking about it. He has overanalysed Grindelwald’s words in the hope of finding out more about his soulmate, but had quickly given up on that. There are simply too many victims, too many witches or wizards Grindelwald would call _useless_ or _weak_. Instead of spending more time trying to figure out more about the person, Newt has focused on what he knows most about – creatures. The mark is a wampus paw, a track that can only be found in North America. It’s not unlikely that the complementing mark also belongs to a creature native to the US. A jackalope’s footprint, that of a snallygaster or a thunderbird. If he takes the Ministry’s classification into consideration, the only native American creature that is on the same level with the wampus is the horned serpent. As impressive as it is, the serpent’s tracks is a rather boring mark. Then again, the classification is not the best criterion, as it puts the creatures in relation to humans instead of comparing them with other creatures. Newt is sure that thunderbirds, for example, are neither weaker nor less majestic than wampus cats. Their tracks, the two different sets of claws, would look fantastic next to each other.

Now that the book project is as good as home and dry, there’s not much distraction anymore, and the confirmation of the booked portkey pushes the idea of finding his soulmate a bit closer to reality. Less than a month until he’ll be in America. In less than a month, he could look at, talk to, touch whoever it is. He takes a deep breath and the next book from the pile. Concentrating on what is happening now is more important, the time in New York will come soon enough. When Newt reaches for his tea, he realises that the spoon is missing. He shakes his head, but can’t suppress a grin. Nifflers … He’ll steal it back from Harold’s burrow when it’s time for the evening feeding round.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi lovely people!
> 
> thank you so much for all the clicks and kudos this story has received while I was busy dealing with real life. I am back now, and I will give my best to stick to the 2-week-rhthm!  
> Here is a Graves chapter for you. I hope you like it—maybe the slow burn is almost burned?  
> On November 19, you'll get Newt's perspective.
> 
> Until then, as always, happy reading!  
> shortbread

**13**

 

 _“Maybe I should begin with Madame President. Her death could set an example, don't you agree, Director?” Grindelwald's voice is dripping with false sweetness, and if Graves could, he'd cover his ears. But he doesn't move, doesn't want to give a reason to get hurt. “In order to control a group, you always need to take the leader down first – with her dead and you lying here, it should be easy to get MACUSA under my thumb. Maybe I should get rid of your entire team, Director. Because let's be honest – it has been weeks now, and they don't seem to notice anything. They are just as useless as their boss, and I don’t think a few more corpses will make a difference. On the other hand … Some of them could be useful. Tell me, Director, who should I keep alive?”_  
_Graves breathes through his nose. He can’t allow himself to make any other kind of noise now. In his head, he lists the names of his team, office after office. He doesn’t know what would be worse for them, dying or working under this monster._  
_Grindelwaldis still next to him, waiting for an answer. “Nothing, Director? You don’t want me to keep anyone alive? That’s a radical decision. Are you sure about that? You will have a miserable life either way, but I thought you might want to have a colleague or two around, a compensation for not having a soulmate. Because I’ll kill whoever it is, I told you that, remember, Director?”_  
_He presses his lips together. No reaction now, gaze down to the floor. He can’t look at Grindelwald, and he can’t look at his soulmark either.  
__"You’re too useless and weak to be a good partner anyway”, Grindelwald says. He laughs. The door falls shut._

Graves wakes with a start. It’s dark around him. His heart races, he can't move his legs, he doesn't know how long it's been since Grindelwald has left him alone again. He tries moving his fingers and arms under the duvet. A duvet he shouldn’t have in his spare room. He whispers a Lumos. It’s the only spell he’s still trying, every now and then when the fear is too strong. A ball of light glows on a wand. Oh. Graves hadn’t expected that. He breathes in and out. Blinking, he realises that he’s in his bedroom. Safe. There are books, there's the nightstand with a newspaper on, there are photographs on the walls. It's been a nightmare, nothing more. Graves turns to the side, stares into the wand's light. He tries to think of people that make him happy, people whom he loves and who he knows care about him. His parents. Lynette, Jake and Nathan. Burns, his wife and daughter. Maybe even Matilda. Graves pulls the duvet closer. The Lumos keeps burning.

The bedroom floor is cold, Graves shudders, curls his toes. He faintly remembers the bad dream he’s had. Of course that would happen when he’s about to spend the whole day with the International Magical Security Council discussing Grindelwald. The longer he sits here, the more he’ll think about it all, the more likely it is that vivid memories of the nightmare might come back. Coffee, he needs coffee now.  
In the kitchen, a special present from Rupert awaits him, artfully laid out on the floor. Graves doesn't know enough about owl's prey to be sure what exactly it is. Maybe parts of a mouse, or a small bird. For a moment, he looks at it, wonders if his pet expects a treat for this mess. Graves sighs, rolls up his sleeves. His soulmark is as reminder of what will happen today— MACUSA expects fourteen aurors who specialise in international security—and who were in New York in the weeks before Christmas to discuss general regulations of portkey security. One of them will be his soulmate. All he will have to do is compare the list of attendants of today’s meeting to the list of people who’d spoken to Grindelwald. And then he’ll have a name.  
Although all the books are long back in Matilda’s library, Graves has memorised the description of soulmate meetings. Comfort, safety, warmth, happiness; the words had been the same in every report. Unfortunately, he also hasn't forgotten the conversation with Grindelwald, the mocking assurance that his soulmate doesn't care about him at all. If that's true … Graves looks at the remains of his owl's breakfast. He should concentrate on the day that lies ahead. A determined swipe with his wand makes Rupert's present disappear in the bin. Graves puts a kettle on the stove, tips the grinder with the tip of his wand to get it to work, takes bread and jam out of the fridge, slices an apple. There won’t be much time for lunch, and the snacks they will have during the meetings are more decorative than filling. Hopefully, he won't have much time for thoughts about his soulmate either. He pushes the fabric of his sleeves down again, inhales the scent of freshly grated coffee.

The conference room is all prepared. There's a fire burning, there are biscuits and coffee pots. “The portkeys with the guests have arrived, Director Graves, Sir. They will be brought up shortly, Sir.” The house elf bows before him. He nods, thanks the creature. The spot in front of the fire is probably the nicest one, and Graves arranges his notes. It's a cold winter, and the warmth will give him comfort when talking about Grindelwald. He knows it's risky, being involved in the investigation of a crime in which he is one of the main victims. If he gives the impression of being too emotionally affected, too caught up in memories, he'll have to take a step back. One of the others would have to take over, and although Graves believes in everyone’s abilities as aurors, he'd hate to let that happen. It would make him seem weak. And even worse, he'd break down in front of his soulmate who already thinks him a useless victim. He can't let that happen. Graves looks around one last time. He's got everything. The list of aurors, his ideas for relocating Grindelwald safely to the USSR, the questions over compensation of the victim families, the suggestion for a new, better safety system.  
Only a few minutes now. Although meeting his soulmate isn't the most important aspect of the day, Graves can't help being nervous. He doesn't expect any sign of sympathy, no smile, no kind words, certainly no apology. They will meet on a professional level, Graves will feel everything the books described and that will be the end of it. It's not very likely that this meeting will make his soulmate change his opinion. The sky outside is grey, and Graves watches his reflection in one of the room's large windows. He hears the first voices outside. Dufour’s heavy French accent, and van Boeren’s lighter Dutch one. Neither of them is a possible soulmate candidate, they have known each other for years. He really should concentrate. He opens the door, shakes the first hands.

Petrow tells them that the papers for a Prisoner Transport under Magical Law are already prepared, and that they will take Grindelwald with them right after the conference.  
“Then we should quickly question Grindelwald”, Schmidt remarks from behind his coffee, earning a nod from Scamander next to him.  
“That’s what I wondered about; who will get to talk to Grindelwald? Not all of us have had the chance in December.”  
Graves frowns. He's almost sure he saw Scamander’s name on the list of people who’d interrogated Grindelwald. He wonders if he should bring that up, but it's not relevant, and maybe Scamander spoke on behalf of the group rather than for himself.  
“I’d say that everybody should be allowed to ask questions. It is, after all, a threat to all of us. Director Graves should lead the interrogation”, Rodriguez suggest.  
“Question is if he is fit to do it”, the Chinese representative mumbles more to themselves, but it doesn’t go unheard. Graves sighs. Of course someone had to make a comment like that. He wants to say something, but is not sure if he should apologise or protest.  
Scamander is quicker. “Excuse me?”, he asks, voice a mixture of disbelief and sternness. “You are aware, Mister Liú, that the council can ban members for inappropriate comments?”  
Liú raises his hands. “I simply meant”, he defends himself, “that the Director might not wish to speak to Grindelwald.”  
They all know it’s not what he wanted to say. New Zealand’s representative clears his throat. He’s not been in office for long, half a year at most, and up until now, he’s stayed quiet. “With all due respect, Mister Liú, what you are implying is ridiculous”, he says. “Grindelwald could have overpowered anyone in this room, and you know it as well as I do, so don’t hold what happened against Director Graves. Even if he doesn’t want to lead the interrogation, it diminishes neither his accomplishments nor or his abilities as a wizard.” The room murmurs agreement, and Kerehoma leans back in his chair, lazily rolling his wand between his fingers. Graves looks at him, focuses on the arms. He could be wrong, of course, but he thinks there is something dark upon the skin, a pattern right where the sleeves end. Black, like a tattoo. Or a soulmark. The two of them look at each other for a second. He is handsome, and meetings at work are not unusual. Graves breathes in and out. Kerehoma adjusts his sleeves and all that’s left is a white shirt on suntanned skin.  
Graves blinks. “Thank you for your concern, Mister Liú”, he says, voice stern. “I will lead the interrogation after a short break.” He needs fresh air.

Jackson and the others are preparing Grindelwald. He’ll drink the Vaseritum and will be brought into the interrogation room. The aurors will get him to confess once again, and that will be it. Graves takes a biscuit, fills his cup with fresh coffee and pours some for the Irish representative. He needs to thank Scamander and Kerehoma. He needs to talk to Kerehoma alone. And then he has to face Grindelwald, can’t allow himself to show any emotion. He needs to focus on that first. Before anyone can even try to start a conversation with him, Graves leaves.

It’s quiet in the bathroom, and the cold water running over his hands calms him down. He has survived weeks being tormented by Grindelwald, he can manage the few minutes the interrogation will take, no matter what Liú thinks or what happens in the nightmares. One more deep breath, and then he will go outside again. The bathroom door opens.  
“Director Graves”, Kerehoma says. “I was just trying to find a less crowded place. But if you’d rather be alone …”  
Graves shakes his head. “I could disappear to my office any time, if I wanted to. Thank you for speaking up, I really appreciate it.” Does he feel safe, or warm or special? Graves isn’t sure. He is calmer now than a few minutes ago, sure, but that is not necessarily connected to Kerehoma.  
“Nothing to thank me for, Director”, his colleague says. “We have close business relations with China, and it’s always the same. They think their history makes them special. Liú needs to remember that they are not the only people with legends and traditional wizarding cultures. You’ve noticed these earlier, I guess.” Kerehoma pushes his sleeve as far up as the cuffs allow. Underneath is a sort of tribal, covering the whole arm. It's nothing that could be connected with a wampus in any way. “When I got promoted, my dad was so proud of me being the first Maori in the position, he wanted me to rebel against the office dress code by wearing short sleeves.” Kerehoma laughs. Maori … Of course. Graves remembers some of their symbols from books about wizarding history around the world. It makes much more sense than him being Graves’s soulmate.  
It's quiet for a few seconds. “A lot of people don’t cover up their soulmarks or tattoos, so why should you cover up yours?”, Graves says. “Besides, you’re allowed to change the dress code in your own department, you’re the director.”  
Kerehoma takes a few seconds to think, washes and dries his hands. “I've never thought of that”, he says, sounding surprised, and then: “We should go back, I think.”

They have not taken more than a few steps when Goldstein comes around the corner, almost running into Kerehoma. Stopping abruptly she stumbles until Kerehoma gets hold of her arm and pulls her into an upright position.  
“Are you alright, Miss?”, he asks.  
She looks at him for a second, then quickly nods and frees her arm from his grip. “Yes. Thank you, Sir.” She sounds hesitant as if she's not sure if she really is okay. Breathing out, she turns to Graves. “Director, Grindelwald is in the interrogation room, you can go in now.”  
“Thank you, Goldstein. Please tell Jackson to prepare the papers for the departure, Petrow wants to leave tonight.”  
She gives them both a quick nod. “Of course, Director. Sir.” She turns around on her heel and disappears again.  
Kerehoma watches her until she's disappeared again. “Please apologise her almost running into you”, Graves says. “We’re all under a lot of pressure at the moment, and having Grindelwald here doesn’t help.”  
“Well, you’ll get rid of him soon.” Kerehoma sounds so happy one might mistake Grindelwald for his own prisoner.

He’d enjoyed it. The mocking, the torturing, the slow deaths. Grindelwald is under Vaseritum, and he still doesn’t have a better answer than his pureblood fantasies and the fact that he’d _liked_ it to see people around him suffer and die. Teeth pressed together, Graves listens to him saying that he, the Director, was fun to play with and more difficult to break than Grindelwald had expected. Graves wants to hurt him, wants him to beg just like his victims had begged. He focuses his gaze on the wall behind Grindelwald. Scamander sits next to him, Kerehoma a few places to the left. Graves pushes his hand into his pocket until his fingertips touch his wand. It makes him feel a little bit safer.

Petrow tries to ask questions, but it is not much use. Grindelwald doesn’t know where exactly his followers are, or how many he has. He keeps repeating his ideas, the complete separation of pureblood and mixed blood, the establishment of a dirt-free wizarding society, as he calls it. Graves’s head hurts from listening, but he can’t show it. Liú is most certainly watching him. Dufour takes over, asks a second time, wants to know about the structure of Grindelwald’s organisation, wants the names of the leaders, cities they are in. They are everywhere, and they are many—that’s all they get out of Grindelwald. Dufour shakes his head, sighs. They will all have to work closely together if they want to take the dark wizards down. Improving the security of portkeys, brooms, fireplaces, show more presence in the community … Graves has the feeling that this was not the last meeting for this year.  
The room is quiet, everybody is looking at him expectantly. “Does any representative still want to continue?”, he asks, looking at each and every one of his colleagues. Nobody. “The interrogation is over. Director Petrow, the documents are signed, the prisoner is yours now. We are more than happy to help with transport, if you wish.”  
“I brought my own aurors, thank you, Director Graves”, Petrow answers politely, and it’s over. The nightmares and memories might stay with Graves for a long time, but at least he doesn’t have this monster in his building anymore.

The last portkey has left. Graves has been invited to London, to Berlin and to Wellington. He has promised to send the protocol out by owl post during the following week, and has personally supervised the departure of the USSR auror team.  
It’s already dark again, and he’s standing at the window in his office. Someone knocks on the door frame. Burns.  
"Congratulations on surviving the day", he says, and Graves smiles. He feels a little bit lighter now, and maybe he's made something like a friend in Kerehoma. "Is there anything I can do for you, Graves?"  
"No, I'll just quickly go over the paperwork once again, and then I'll close the file. Thank you for offering, though. You can leave my door open." The folder with the reports and notes written since he'd been found by his colleagues now contains a few new pages, and Graves quickly goes through them, turns back pages until he's found what he'd been looking for.   
  
_Gellert Grindelwald (prison cell 1908)—visitors_  
_\- E. Jackson (report attached)_  
_- S. Picquery_  
_\- Q. Goldstein (report attached)_  
_- N. Scamander (signed form attached)_  
_\- E. Jackson (report attached)_  
That is it! He knew he'd seen Scamander's name on the list. Graves has read Jackson's reports and that of Goldstein's sister more than enough. Scamander's visit was too short for a report—the form says he hardly spent ten minutes in the cell. The signed form contains only one sentence, stating that Scamander had asked Grindelwald about nothing than Obscuri and that he hadn't spilled any information on internal affairs. The statement has been signed properly. Graves sighs. He'd just spent the entire day with Scamander and not once been asked for a private conversation. He stares at the signature, blinks.  _Newton Scamander, Magizoologist_  it says. Going through the papers on his desk, Graves finds the attendance list of the Security Council's meeting with the signature  _Theseus Scamander, Director Department for Magical Security, MoM London, UK_ on it. Brothers maybe, or cousins. The Scamanders are an old family, there's nothing unusual about finding out that there is more than only one person with that last name. Still ...  _Newton Scamander_ sounds oddly familiar. He's heard that name before, and certainly not from his English colleague. They never talk about private matters, nobody would mention their close or extended family within the context they usually meet in. Graves goes back to the first page of the folder.  
  
"House elf from the archives, please", he says, and it doesn't take more than a few seconds for one of them to appear.  
"Director Graves has asked for me, Sir? How can I help the Director, Sir?" The creature bows quickly, then stares at him with large brown eyes. Its long fingers smooth down the MACUSA house elf uniform, dark blue towels, held together with a scarf pin that bears the institution's logo.  
"I need whatever you have on someone called 'Newton Scamander'", Graves explains. "He was here when Grindelwald was captured, there must be newspaper articles or the like. As quick as you can, please."  
"Of course, I will be right back for the Director, Sir", the house elf nods. With a flick of his fingers, he's gone. Graves starts at the beginning of the of the folder, with the report of the day he was found. He begins to read. If Newton Scamander was allowed to visit Grindelwald in his cell, there must be more information about him than one signed document. He skims through the pages, scanning the lines for the name.  
Graves is going through the list of possible Grindelwald sympathisers when the house elf appears again, stacks of paper in his arms. He bows. "I have found several newspapers for the Director, Sir." He hands them to Graves, and after having received a thank you, disapparates again. Graves unfolds the first newspaper. It's the  _Daily Owl_ , published a week ago in the United Kingdom. Graves begins to read.  
  
On the first page of the arts section, he finds what he'd been looking for. The interview is titled  _An Unlikely Hero._ Graves reads the introductory sentence  _Aspiring magizoologist and author Newt Scamander (30) on creatures, Grindelwald and, of course, his book_ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them  _(Obscurus Books, ʛ 2, in stores 07/02/27)_ before looking at the picture. They must be brothers, Theseus and he. Same nose, same eyes. On the picture, Scamander sits on the floor, legs crossed. He lets a creature walk up his arm before looking right into the camera. Graves wonders what the photographer had said to make him laugh like that. In the interview, Scamander says that he wishes people would pay more attention to his work as magizoologist and stop asking about his involvement in the whole _"Grindelwald affair"_ , as he calls it. _"I'm the wrong Scamander brother for anything concerning Magical Security. Unless it's about securing the preservation of species, of course"_ , makes Graves smile. Scamander apparently cares about every living being, and he clearly wants to go his own way with his suitcase full of creatures, whatever that is supposed to mean. Graves finds himself looking at the picture again. Scamander seems like a genuinely nice person. He finds it difficult to match the impression from the interview to the things Grindelwald had said about his soulmate. The whole story about the soulmate thinking him weak and useless ... That does not match the person who lets some kind of stick insect dangle from his finger and has a smile that is so honest it reaches his eyes.  
Without thinking too much about it, Graves takes a sheet of his department's writing paper and his quill.  
_Dear Mister Scamander,_  
_allow me to congratulate you on the upcoming publication of your book._  
_I hope all your hard work and the years of research will pay off._  
_I wish you all the best_.

 _Sincerely  
_ _Percival E. Graves_

 _Director of Magical Security_  
_Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_  
_Magical Congress of the United States of America_

He folds and seals the letter before he can write a postscript asking about a soulmark that could possibly match a wampus. It has to be Scamander. Of the few visitors Grindelwald had received, he's the only one Graves has never met. Grindelwald and Scamander, on the other hand, they could have run into each other before Grindelwald was exposed. Besides; by interfering, Scamander has basically saves Graves's life—and who would do that if not a soulmate?  
  
Graves watches the MACUSA owl disappear in the night sky. It will take a few days for the letter to reach England, but if he is lucky, Scamander will receive it just before the publication. A gesture makes the newspaper fold itself together. He looks at the other papers the house elf has brought him. One article is called  _British Wizard Saves America,_ another one  _This Man Is Our National Hero (and he's not even American!)_ , and then there is  _Shocking! America's Aurors Unable To Take Down Grindelwald By Themselves_. Graves rolls his eyes. They all glorify Scamander, but not a single of these articles features an actual quotation—and after having read the interview, Graves doubts that Scamander approves of this sensational journalism. He puts the newspapers away and thumbs through the Grindelwald file. There have to be more detailled reports on Scamander's role. Now that he knows what he is looking for, it does not take him long to find the document he had once started but never finished reading. Graves takes a bite of his sandwich.  
_Scamander, who had falsely been accused of being a threat to the Wizarding Community of America (see Attachment 1),_ Thumb between the pages of the actual report, Graves turns pages until he finds  _Attachment 1_.  
A red X stretches over the whole piece of parchment, and someone has written  _VOID!!!_ on both the top and the bottom of the page. Deciphering what the black ink underneath the red one says, Graves feels like somebody pulled the rug from underneath his feet. Maybe he has misread something because it's dark and the day has made him tired. Graves lets a ball of light dance on his shaking fingers, but the words stay the same.  
The document was signed by Grindelwald while he, Graves, was locked up in his own flat, but what does it matter?  
_Execution Warrant_ , it says on top of the page. Two names underneath— _Newton Scamander_ and  _Porpentina Goldstein_. The signature is unmistakably Graves's. He swallows a few times to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. It remains, just like the soulmark, just like the knowledge that Grindelwald was right. He'd promised over and over again that he'd kill Graves's soulmate, and although that hadn't worked out, he's still managed to take away all hope of being able to build any kind of relationship. Nobody would want to be with the person who sentenced them to death. Not even someone as nice as Newton Scamander.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone  
> as always—thank you so much for your feedback, we loved it!
> 
> Have fun reading about exciting things happening in Newt's life.  
> Regarding Graves and Newt meeting each other—hang in there just a little bit longer!
> 
> The next chapter will come online on December 3rd.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**14**

 

It's the morning of the book release and the milk carton has slipped over the cup. It’s not tea with milk now, it’s milk with the hint of tea. Newt sighs. Of course the most important morning in his career so far would start like this. The signing event at Flourish and Blotts is supposed to begin at eleven, and he still has a suitcase of creatures to feed. He quickly heats the kettle a second time, takes tea and milk down to the shed with him. It can sit on the shelf until he’s finished the round.

“You’ll be back home soon”, he says, throwing another chunk of meat. Frank catches it with his claws and lets himself sink until he is on one level with the broom. The thunderbird blinks, and Newt blinks back. The claws look good, both of them. With the skin healed, the last excuse to keep Frank in here for longer has faded away. Ten days from now, he’ll open the case somewhere in Arizona’s desert and the thunderbird will leave. As much as Newt will miss him, it also means that there will be space for whatever kind of creature he will find on his travels. And maybe thunderbirds have the brains of a hippogriff, maybe Frank and he will meet again one day and recognise each other. The thought makes Newt smile.  
He should get going, the murtlaps and bowtruckles are still waiting, he needs to take a shower and to drink his tea. But it’s kind of peaceful up here, one of Frank’s wings stroking his cheek. Ten days … It really is not that much time. “Know the downside of living in the wild?”, he asks. “You’ll have to hunt on your own. No more breakfast service.” The creature doesn’t look too impressed, he’s waiting for the last piece of rabbit. Newt knows that he can’t withhold the meat for much longer now if he doesn’t want to be chased around by an angry thunderbird. He starts a rapid descend, puts one hand into his shoulder bag, throws the rabbit somewhere behind him and ducks on his broom so he doesn’t get in the way of Frank’s claws. Down on the ground, the bag with crustaceans for the murtlaps is already waiting for him.

His mum is there, sitting in the first row, right next to Worme and the manager of the bookstore who has just introduced him. Newt can feel Pickett hiding in his hair.  
“Hello and good morning to all of you.” He lets his eyes wander through the room. There are children sitting on the floor, too young to attend Hogwarts yet. He spots Greg in the crowd, grinning at him. “So … I did a lot of research on creatures and put everything in a book.” He thumbs through one of the editions lying in front of him. “It’s supposed to be a guidebook for everyone. Something to consult if you want to know how to get rid of garden gnomes, or how to domesticate them, if you feel like England needs more gnomes.” People laugh. Everybody knows that’s certainly not what anyone needs. “The world of beasts and creatures holds so much to discover, not only here, but all over the world. I know that most people see most creatures as nuisance or ingredient for potions, wands and so on. I personally think that they can be more useful when we accept them as beings who are our equals instead of just using them. Creatures can teach us a lot about our abilities as wizards and witches, about the magic that surrounds each one of us. Knowledge about magical creatures can be useful for all of us, that’s why I wrote this book, and I am very glad to be able to share it with you. Thank you all for coming, and feel free to ask whatever question you have—well, maybe stick to the ones related to my work.” Laughter and applause. Newt bites the inside of his lip. This is the critical moment that will show if people actually care about his book or if they only came to see _The Man Who Saved America_ , _Theseus Scamander’s Brother, An Unlikely Hero_ or whatever else the press has called him ever since he came back from the US.  
  
A girl raises her hand. “Mister Scamander, do you really have a magical suitcase with animals in it? Are they all your pets?”  
“Yes, I do have a magical suitcase with creatures living in it. Sometimes when I travel, I find creatures that are hurt or very far from their home. I let them live in my suitcase until they feel better again or until I can bring them home. So most of them are not really my pets, they are more like temporary guests.”  
“The newspapers said you even keep a thunderbird in there—isn’t that illegal to keep such a dangerous beast?”, someone asks from the back of the room.  
Newt takes a sip of water to gain time. “It is illegal to keep a category five creature, thunderbirds are category four. However, domesticating is not my aim anyway. I create habitats for each creature so they can feel as comfortable as possible. If they only see me as a provider of food or as someone they want to interact with is entirely up to them, and once they are fit to be released, I bring them back to their natural habitat.” Apparently, his intentions are is more difficult to understand than he’d thought. Newt doesn’t need to be on first name terms with every single creature. He only wants to study them and to learn from them.  
  
“But aren’t you making our world more dangerous by letting those creatures live?”, the same voice comes again. “I wouldn’t want my children to get near a thunderbird.”  
Newt smiles politely. “Don’t leave them unattended in the desert of Arizona”, he replies drily. In his mother’s face, he can see that she finds the question as ridiculous as he does.  
“Let’s assume we kill the dangerous creatures. What would happen then? First of all, which creatures are the dangerous ones? Well, since every creature can be dangerous in a way, we’ have to kill them all. We’d lose valuable material for wands and potions, we’d lose objects to test our medicine on, we’d lose the backbone of our postal system and being an animagi would become pointless because everyone would be able to identify you straight away. Do you see my point? We are creatures, all of us, and we deserve at least a minimal amount of respect. You’re still allowed to dislike them, you don’t need to be their friend, but don’t kill them just because they could be dangerous. You always fear what you don’t know, and the less you know the more dangerous it can get. The more you know about a creature—habitat, tracks, behaviour when feeling threatened and so on—the more likely are you to be able to avoid those situations. I hope that answered your question.” Some people applaud, and it’s nice to see his mother smile. Newt takes the few quiet seconds to think about what he’s just said. He doesn’t think he could have found better words.

While he explains how to pursue a career in magizoology, Pickett decides to climb from his head over his ear to the shoulder. Some of the children in the front row start to giggle. Newt laughs with them. “That’s my friend Pickett. He lives on a tree in the suitcase, but he often comes along with me because he is curious about what I do.” That there is an actual creature in the room leads to all sorts of questions: What does Pickett eat, how old is he, did Newt build him a little house on the tree? Maybe it would be fun to write a book especially for children. He is still answering the questions when the store manager gets up from his chair. The time is up, Mister Scamander will sign books now and thanks to everyone for coming. Newt leans back in his chair. If the questions in Scotland and Dublin don’t get much worse, book signings are less stressful than he had expected.  
The first person stands in front of his table, smiling at him. “Well done, Mister Scamander. I’m very proud of you. I’ll have a signed copy, please, and I’ll take you and your dangerous creature to the pub for lunch.”  
Newt bites back his laugh. “You know you don’t have to pay, mum.”  
“Nonsense”, she says. “Two galleons, darling, I think I can afford that. Write something nice for your father and me and then I’ll wait in the back of the store until you’re done here.” She watches him dip the quill into the ink. Newt doesn’t have to think twice.  
_Thank you for raising me the way you did._  
_I love you._  
Newt.  
He hands her the book, sees her eyes shine as she reads the dedication.

There is a handful of owls waiting in the tree outside of the flat. Worme had warned him about an increased amount of mail, and Newt has bought enough owl treats for half an owlery. As soon as he opens the window, the first owl stumbles to the window sill, another one lands on his shoulder and rubs her head against his.  
“Hello Arke”, he says, untying the letter from her leg while trying to ignore the stinging pain of claws. “It’s so nice of Theseus to send you. Your sister is in the study, if you want to go see her.” With an appreciative noise she is off to find Iris, and Newt can take care of the other owls. He takes out a few plates, fills them with water and finds owl treats in one of the kitchen cupboards.  
Theseus’s letter is short, but written in a warm tone. He writes he’ll miss the opportunity to have lunch together, and he hopes that Newt’s future projects go well, whatever and wherever they might be.  
The parchment with the MACUSA seal on it is a surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone apart from Tina to actually care about his publication. It’s not Department of Magical Security as an entity but Director Graves who offers his congratulations and wishes him all the best. Maybe Tina has told him about it, or maybe he’s read it in a newspaper. Either way, it is really nice of the director to post a letter to someone he’s never met. He hasn’t written anything like _Thank you for saving my life_ , but Newt feels like the fact that Graves even thought of him already implies his gratitude.  
Tina and Queenie have written one letter together, and there is a shorter one from Jacob in the envelope. _I wish I could send you a cake, but it might get damaged on the way to England. I will bake you one as soon as you’re here again, I promise!_ makes Newt smile. He should keep Rose here until he has written an answer.  
The team of the Dragon Research Centre sends their congratulations in the form of a hand-drawn card, and the colleagues from the Ministry have sent one as well.  
Ollivanders, the wand shop, send their congratulations and thank him for the good teamwork regarding the appeasement of bowtruckles and the collecting of wand wood. It reminds Newt of the fact that he still hasn’t relocated the ones in his case.  
Headmaster Dippet’s letter is surprisingly informal. He writes that both the House of Hufflepuff and the whole school congratulate him and that they are all very proud of having educated such a ‘ _determined, curious mind’_. He would love to have Newt come to the school to talk about his book and to discuss the introduction of Care of Magical Beasts as a subject and wants to know if Newt could be available shortly before the easter holidays. It’s nice to read that they actually take the idea seriously, it makes Newt feel like he could be able to change a little part of the world.

Frank obediently follows the trail that Newt has laid out. In front of the stairs, he hesitates.  
“Oh, come on. You’ve made it out there before, you can do it again.” Newt takes off with his broom and throws a bit of meat into the air. The thunderbird screeches. He’s not used to Newt flying above him, and rattlesnake is too delicious a treat to ignore it. It takes a few more seconds until they are both out in the desert. Frank disappears into the sky and then comes down again, making the earth shake with the force of his landing. He bows his head, pushes his beak gently against Newt’s forehead. The feathers on his neck are soft.  
This is it, this is Frank saying goodbye. Newt can feel a lump in his throat, tries to swallow it away. “I’ll miss you”, he whispers. “I’ll come back now and then, for research. Maybe you’ll recognise me, I hope you will. And don’t get abducted by smugglers again, promise?” He takes a step back, and after they have stared at each other for a few more seconds, Frank spreads his wings. Newt watches him disappear into Arizona’s dusk.  
  
The flat is empty. He leaves a note on the counter and disappears into his case. He almost stumbles over Harold who is trying to remove a hinge from the shed’s door. Upon seeing the human, the niffler quacks excitedly.  
“I’ve missed you, too”, Newt says, lets the creature climb onto his back. Harold sticks his snout behind Newt’s ear and tries to get his claws underneath the shirt. Newt should clean out Frank’s habitat, but he hasn’t spent much time with Harold lately, and bonding is important. The niffler is one of the few creatures he intends to keep, after all.

When he hears Tina calling for him and coming down the stairs, Newt lies on the ground and has a purring ball of fluff curled up on his chest.  
His friend is still wearing her MACUSA uniform. She looks tired but happy. “Newt! I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I was stuck at the office because of this case I’m on … You could have sent an owl, one of us would have come home.”  
“I’ve just released Frank. He has to find his way on his own, now. I just hope he will be okay”, he says. The lump is still in his throat.  
“Frank is a grown-up thunderbird, Newt. He will do just fine, don’t worry. Do you want to come up and have dinner?”  
“I can’t.”  
Tina rolls her eyes. “Come on, Newton, don’t be dramatic. It’s okay that you miss your creature, but-”  
“Harold fell asleep on me”, he interrupts. “He's under my shirt, that little spot right here. I don’t want to move him to his burrow because bonding time is important.”  
She sighs. “What are we supposed to do, take dinner down here?”  
He smiles at her. “That would be a solution.” He watches her shake her head and gives her his nicest smile. “Please, Tina!”  
She turns around, makes her way up the stairs again. “Everything will get dirty!”, he hears her mutter. Newt knows he has won. Tina and Queenie will bring chairs and a table, and Newt will just stay here on the ground and use his wand to direct food into his mouth.  
“You’re a witch, Tina”, he calls after her. “Try a bit harder!”

Queenie promises to invite Jacob over for dinner during the next few days. She laughs when Newt tells her he had been promised a cake. “Be prepared for the best cake of your life. He gets better and better, and all without magic, I don’t know how he does it! You need to tell him how quickly you received our letter, he still thinks their No-Maj post is faster than our owls.” She shakes her head about that.  
Newt lets a piece of pastry float towards himself. “I’ll tell him, and thank you for the letters of congratulation. It was a nice surprise to see that people besides my family and my colleagues also thought of me.”  
“The concept is called ‘having friends’, Newt”, Tina explains, and he laughs.  
“Thanks for reminding me that I have friends. I meant the unexpected letters. Like the one from Mr. Ollivander, the wandmaker. He thanked me for having shared all my knowledge on bowtruckles. Or the one I received from your boss.”  
They both blink at him. “Graves sent you a letter? He could have told the department, we all would have signed”, Queenie complains. She swats a fly away from the dishes.  
“Maybe he felt bad”, Tina suggests. “I was called into his office a few days ago, he apologised profoundly for the execution warrant. Maybe he is slowly working through everything.”  
“Oh.” Newt waves his hand, accidently lets a piece of meat float away from him. “Could be. Anyway, getting letters was nice, and being sentenced to death wasn’t too bad, it made us become—what did you call it again, Tina? Acquaintances?” He grins up at her. The Goldstein sisters laugh, and Newt can feel Harold move on his chest. They should put the cutlery away before he wakes up. And although he really feels like spending some more time down here, he should probably take the bed upstairs. There will be enough nights he’ll spend in the case, and cleaning out Frank’s habitat can definitely wait a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> easter eggs:
> 
> \- Theseus's owl Arke is named after the twin sister of Iris (who is the goddess of the rainbow and—like Arke or Hermes—one of the messengers of the gods). I chose the names because who if not the Scamander brothers would name their owls after someone from Greek mythology?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely people!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support, be it kudos, comments or bookmarks. It makes me so happy that people like the story!
> 
> Today, I don't only have a new chapter and the long-desired meeting (no, I'm not kidding, they really do meet!), but also some important news: I have decided to split the story into two parts and have already created a 'series'.
> 
> I'm so looking forward to your comments about Graves and Newt finally meeting, I hope you all like it!
> 
> The new chapter will come online in 2 weeks—December 17th.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**15**

 

When he comes back from his lunch break, there is a new report on his desk. Fayden and Goldstein have worked quickly and efficiently. They will want to talk about it, in the next morning meeting. Graves sighs. He decides to postpone it for a few more minutes.  
_Dear Mary,_ he writes, balancing a piece of parchment on his knees.  
_I hope you have settled down in Ilvermorny by now. Do you feel comfortable in your dorm? When we were still in school, your dad sometimes took me to your common room. Do you still have those old brown armchairs in front of the fireplaces?_  
_What’s your favourite subject so far? I’m sure you're having fun learning spells and charms, but I also hope you have enough time between lessons to make friends and to play._  
_You probably still remember that I promised you an owl for your second year. We could go to a store together when you are home for your spring holidays, if you want?_  
_Sending you much love,_  
_Percival_  
As soon as Rupert comes to bring the evening news, he can bring the letter to Ilvermorny. Graves still feels bad about having missed Christmas, he will make sure his goddaughter will get the best owl possible.

Together with Fayden, Goldstein had been able to identify people who are currently trying to revive the Second Salemers. Apparently, Memory Charms are not enough to make the prejudices against witches and wizards disappear. No-Majs have a vast amount of stories, and Graves usually finds their fairy tales highly amusing. Witches are mostly harmless creatures that dance around fires during warm summer nights, and wizards are old men who have long beards and make wise remarks—until something happens that the NoMajs can't accept, until they need someone to blame for bad harvests, for hurricanes or the sudden death of a family member. Graves doesn't have any illusions about his mission, he knows that the years of violence against magical people can't be erased. But maybe they could try to convince the Second Salemers that the magical community has been killed?  
The whole auror team would need to work together, attack the target people at roughly the same time. As director, he has to make a decision, and he'll have to make it quickly. He sighs. Maybe a trip to the coffee kitchen will help.

“Director?”, Princely calls after him. “Mr. Scamander is here to see you.”  
Graves stops dead in his tracks. Scamander? At MACUSA? It's either Theseus who came to discuss the new security treatment they had both been working on since the conference, or … His soulmate. The younger Scamander brother. The person who carries a soulmark on their skin. Someone he had sentenced to death. It doesn’t matter how he chooses to end the sentence; he can’t keep standing here with his back towards his guest. Graves breathes out and turns around.  
The coat seems new, but the suit has seen better days, and the scarf is far too … It’s not that he is carelessly dressed, it’s just that he does not fit. Standing next to Princley in black and white, Scamander seems like an intruder or an exoctic guest to MACUSA. It makes Graves blink.  
“Newton Scamander, Director”, Princley unnecessarily supplies, and Graves wants to reply something, wants to say that he can full well see it’s not Theseus. His guest, however, is quicker.  
“I’m aware that we haven’t met each other yet, Director Graves, and I am sorry to turn up without having informed you first. I promise I won’t keep you from work for long, but I could also come back another time, if that is better.” Scamander is obviously nervous, swallows three times. Now that he stands here, it is easy to see the differences between him and his brother. The hair is lighter, the eyes are more green than hazel. And he is taller than he had seemed in the photographs, Graves notices.  
“Not at all, Mister Scamander”, he says eventually, dismissing Princley with a short nod. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”

Scamander sits down in one of the leather chairs, a book in his hands.  
Graves waits until the house elf has disappeared before he sits down, stirrs sugar into his coffee. “How can I help you?”  
“I came to thank you for your letter. It was very kind of you to think of me. I brought you this.” He places the book on the table. The cover is dark blue, a golden dragon has been stamped into it, along with the words _Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them by Newt Scamander_. Graves stares at the book. Scamander wants to give it to him, just because Graves had sent him a few polite words? He doesn’t even have an answer to that. “If you’re not interested in creatures, you don’t have to accept it, of course”, Scamander adds after a few seconds of silence.  
Graves takes a sip of his coffee before he takes the book and traces the golden dragon on it with his finger. It’s beautiful. He’ll have to send an owl to Matilda and cancel his reservation on one of her library copies. “I don’t know much about creatures, to be honest”, he admits. “I couldn’t tell you what type of dragon that is, for example. But I’m curious to learn more, so thank you for your gift.” He wants to ask how the book has been received by the general public so far, what Scamander is doing here in America, how long he intends to stay. He can’t, though, not with the picture of the execution warrant in the back of his mind.  
“You should be the one accepting my gifts”, he says, and one look at Scamander tells Graves how confused he is. “I didn’t … mention it in my letter, but I know that you played the biggest part in my rescue, Mister Scamander, and I also know that you almost got executed because of me. I’m more than grateful for everything you have done for me.”  
Scamander waves his hand dismissively. “No need to thank me, Director. It was the least I could do.” He smiles just as in the photographs, from his eyes to his mouth.  
The understatement almost makes Graves laugh out loud. Scamander makes it sound like it was a minor favour, like he’s done what anyone could have done. Maybe he really believes that, or maybe he wants to put everything that happened behind himself.

Graves is still thinking about a reply when Rupert appears outside of the window, his beak knocking against the window. “Excuse me”, Graves apologises, opens the window by bending his finger.  
“Don’t land on the desk”, he warns, rolls his eyes when the owl does exactly that. “Rupert, get off my documents!” The bird only blinks at him.  
From his seat in the corner, Scamander whistles a few times. The owl seems to listen attentively before flying over to the other table and settling down between the coffee cup and the glass of water. Scamander offers his hand, and the bird doesn’t even hesitate before pushing his head against it. It’s fascinating to watch, and Graves wants to ask how Scamander has managed to gain Rupert’s trust this quickly.  
“Would you have dinner with me?”, he asks instead, surprising himself with the question, and as soon as the words are out, he can’t stop talking. “It's the least _I_ can do, I think. I know, of course, that one meal is not enough to repay you, and I’d understand if you didn’t want to eat with someone who looks like Grindelwald. My question was probably inappropriate, I’m sorry.”  
Scamander stares at him and it's impossible to decide if he looks sad or confused. Maybe it's both. “But you are nothing like him, Director Graves”, Scamander says. “Trust me, you really don't look like Grindelwald at all.”  
It's quiet, and Graves can feel warmth spread in himself. He breathes out. If Scamander doesn't see Grindelwald in him, maybe nobody does? Maybe he can just be himself, maybe the memories will fade at some point and he will be nothing but Graves again.  
“That being said”, Scamander continues and smiles, “I'd never turn down a good meal, so yes to your question. I usually feed my creatures around seven, I could be free at eight. Should we meet in front of the building?”  
Graves nods slowly. He hadn’t expected Scamander to actually say yes; he shouldn’t have said yes, not if he is the kind of person Grindelwald had described him as. “Half past eight”, he decides. “I wouldn’t want you to rush the feeding.” He gets another smile for that before Scamander gets up.  
“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work any longer, Director. See you tonight.” His hand is warm in Graves’s.  
Graves wants to thank him for stopping by, for the book, for accepting the invitation, for … He doesn’t. He has revealed far too much of himself already. Maybe Scamander agreeing to have dinner together was nothing but politeness; Graves can’t allow himself to forget what Grindelwald had said just because Scamander has been kind to him. So he leads his guest to the hallway like he would do with anyone.  
“Now I still don’t know what kind of dragon you’ve put on the front of your book”, he says as they exchange a last handshake.  
Scamander laughs openly. “Well, Director, you have an encyclopedia now …” Instead of ending the sentence, he nods at the goblin who operates the lift.  
The laughter is still ringing in Graves’s ears when he returns to his coffee.

Graves has talked to Jackson, written an outline for a possible mission and scheduled a meeting for the next morning. If MACUSA manages to find everyone whose name is on the list Fayden and Goldstein have compiled, they could extinguish the Second Salemers before the week is over. He lets the ink of his notes disappear and locks the document in the drawer of his desk. He makes his round through the office, says goodbye to the team and makes his way up to the President’s rooms to submit the latest updates on the plans for international security. Before Picquery’s secretary can engage him in a conversation, he is out of the door again and apparates to his flat.  
He chooses a shirt in dark red that Scamander will definitely not be able to see through, and makes sure to close the cufflinks. One last look in the mirror. _You are nothing like him._ Graves tries to give himself an encouraging smile. He can do it, have dinner with Scamander without letting too many memories into his mind, without overanalysing. It's just one evening. On the bedside table, _Fantastic Beast and Where To Find Them_ is still open.  
  
Scamander comes around the corner, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, avoids bumping into people with the practiced ease of someone who is used to disappearing in a crowd, or someone who has accustomed to being ignored. But before Graves can think about what he could deduct from that, Scamander stands in front of him. “I hope you didn't wait too long?”, he asks.  
Graves looks at his watch. They are both early. “Not at all. The restaurant is not far, but we don’t need to walk, if you’d rather apparate.” He offers his arm, and Scamander takes it. There are hints of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and Graves bites his tongue so he doesn't blurt out anything utterly ridiculous. It's just dinner, he tries to remind himself. It's just dinner and Grindelwald had said his soulmate would never want him. He mustn’t forget that.

“I think the one on your book is a Common Welsh Green”, Graves says after they've ordered.  
Scamander smiles, amusement blinking in his eyes. “My publicist thinks that having a dragon on the cover will make people buy the book. So far, he’s not been wrong.”  
“Will the American edition have an American dragon on the cover?”  
“I don’t think I know of any dragons in North America”, Scamander almost sounds sad about that. “And I’m not even sure if people really buy a book just because of the cover.”  
“People buy fake wands on the black market and then send complaints to the Wand Department at MACUSA”, Graves replies. “I'm sure they'd also buy a book just because it has a nice drawing on the front.”  
Scamander laughs. “Fake wands? But wouldn't that be … just plain sticks? Is that what you have to deal with at the office?”  
Graves grins back. “I mostly sign forms and attend endless meetings, a few plain sticks are a nice distraction from time to time.”  
The waiter brings their food, and Graves wonders if Scamander choose the mushroom dish because it was one of the very few options without meat. It would make sense that someone who loves creatures decides against eating them. Before he can ask, Scamander has taken up the conversation again.  
“The office part is not exactly my favourite either”, Scamander agrees. “I much prefer the practical work.”  
“What is your practical work here in the US?”, Graves asks, takes a sip of his drink.  
“Well”, Scamander says, “I'd like to find …” He doesn't finish the sentence, averts his eyes for a second. “I don't really know.” Graves looks at him. He might be wrong, but it seems like the mood has shifted. He can't find anything invasive in his question, though. Then, just like that, the moment is over, Scamander is smiling again. “I’ll find … something, I guess. I'm a Hufflepuff, and everyone knows we're particularly good finders. Good at finding things by accident, I mean.” He grins.  
“I'm sorry, you're a what?”, Graves asks.  
Scamander is now laughing. He shakes his head, waves his fork. “Hufflepuff. It's one of the Hogwarts houses. It was an in-joke, just ignore it.”  
But Graves doesn't want to ignore it. He wants to know more about Scamander, and he's never heard anything about how the British school system works. “How many houses are there? Four, like in Ilvermorny?”  
Scamander nods. “Yes. I guess there's always one house that is made fun of, and at Hogwarts, it's Hufflepuff.”  
“Oh, we had that, too. Never ask a Pukwudgie for advice because they'll tell you to do whatever you want”, Graves answers and can't hold back his grin. He hasn't said that in years.  
“I was just about to ask what you think I could find here, where I should travel”, Scamander says. “But if you were a Pukwudgie at school …”

The thought makes Graves laugh. “No”, he says. “I wasn't.” He could mention wampuses now, in a relatively harmless context. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t want to risk anything. “I don't know much about creatures, but I'd say the Rocky Mountains are an interesting area, probably very different from what you could find in Great Britain. And New England might be worth a visit; I grew up in Vermont, and there were all kinds of stories about what could be lurking in the forests.”  
“Did you ever see anything specific?”, Scamander asks, voice curious.  
Graves tries to think of his childhood, of all those long Sunday walks through the woods. “We were never allowed to leave the path or to run too far away. The only creatures I really found in the forest were beetles or spiders, and birds, of course. One time, I saw something that looked just like a unicorn from one of our story books. But my father said it had probably just been a deer, or that I had imagined it, and that was it.”  
Scamander licks a drop of sauce from his lips. “Do you think you imagined it?  
He shrugs. “I … I was a child. Children imagine all kinds of things.” He can still remember that it had been the summer before he’d moved to Ilvermorny. They had gone for a walk in the afternoon, and the creature had not been more than a quick shadow and a pair of eyes staring at him from between the trees. It might as well have been a dream.  
“Unicorns are less shy around children, and they are curious, especially the foals”, Scamander says. “But of course I'll have to visit the forest to assess the situation. It's not more than a day or two of fieldwork, I should be able to squeeze that into my schedule at some point.”  
Graves laughs, unsure if Scamander is joking. “Well, you are always welcome in my office, Mister Scamander.”  
Scamander looks at him for a few seconds, as if he’s trying to read something in Graves’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, Director”, he says, and from the tone in his voice, Graves knows that Scamander has understood the invitation.

It’s almost a disappointment that the soulmark hasn’t changed in the slightest when the evening with Scamander has given Graves so much to think about … He still can’t believe that he’s spoken about his childhood and his family, topics he usually only discusses with people who have known him for years. He had undeniably felt comfortable, it had been one of the best evenings since he’d been discharged from the hospital. Maybe that could be enough for a while. Graves knows, of course, that he should talk to Scamander, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to think about Grindelwald, doesn’t want to hear Scamander say that they shouldn’t be together. That can wait for a while. Graves takes a sip of his evening tea, opens his copy of _Fantastic Beasts_ and flips the pages until he’s found the entry on unicorns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> \- the joke that Hufflepuffs are particularly good finders (and Graves's milder version of "What the hell is a Hufflepuff?") is of course taken from A Very Potter Musical by StarKid Productions
> 
> \- the joke that Pukwudgies are rubbish at helping someone to make decisions is borrowed from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Rings (from the chapter 'Three is Company') and actually about elves: Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will answer both no and yes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the feedback to the last chapter! I'm happy to read that you liked the first meeting.  
> Here is a bit of chapter of Newt doing more or less exciting things. For those of you who wondered about what Newt thought about Graves—here is your answer.  
> As I can't promise to be able to upload on New Year's Eve, I've decided to take a three week break—the next chapter will come online on January 7.
> 
> So even though there are still a few days: happy Christmas to those of you who it matters to or who celebrate it, and I hope you'll have a good start into 2018!
> 
> Love and happy reading!  
> shortbread

**16**

 

“Newt?”, comes Jacob’s voice from somewhere near the stairs. “The table is all set, are you joining us for coffee?”  
“ Just a minute”, he mumbles, fully aware that his friend couldn’t have heard that answer. A few feet away, two diricalws argue over something they have found on the ground.  
Newt can hear Jacob’s steps behind him, raises his hand to keep him from speaking. “See that?”, he asks. “The smaller one fluffs up to appear threatening and taller, he’s trying to intimidate.” Jacob sits down next to him, and together they watch the small diricawl take the upper hand – he simply bites off a large part of the earthworm and trots to a different part of the meadow.  
“It’s great to see you again after so long. I’m supposed to tell you that Queenie said she'd stay out of your head. Do you want to talk?” Jacob touches his shoulder.  
“About?”, Newt asks back, proud at how neutral he sounds. He gets up, can feel Jacob’s gaze on him.  
“Why don’t you tell me?”, his friend says. “Tina said you haven’t come up much, not even for meals, and that you’ve forbidden Queenie to look into your head. They worry about you.”  
Newt sighs. It’s true, he has spent a lot of time alone, and he has asked Queenie not to read his thoughts. “I just want to spend a bit more time with my creatures. Maybe I’m a bit nervous because of the publication, but that’s all.”  
“It’s next Friday, right? I’m sure you’ll do great.” Jacob gives him an encouraging smile while Pickett makes his way from a tree branch to Newt’s shoulder. “You’re already on the bestseller list in the UK, Tina told me. Do the pictures in your book move, like the photographs in the wizarding newspapers?”  
“That’s something only -” Newt begins, but then he remembers that the paintings in Hogwarts also moved. He could have thought of that, it would have been a nice addition. Worme would have loved it. “They don’t move.” One last look at the occamies, at Dougal, who hangs on one of the trees nearby, at the mooncalves peacefully grazing on their meadow. The Goldstein sisters are right – he does spend a lot of time down here. An afternoon among friends won’t hurt.  
  
It’s not just a cake. Newt blinks, while Jacob next to him grins proudly. “Do you like it?”, he asks.  
Newt laughs disbelievingly. “Do I like it? It looks fantastic, I love it! We need to take a picture of that!” Queenie is already next to him, camera in her hands. The cake is an open book; Jacob has used some kind of food colouring to paint a niffler on one page, a bowtruckle on the other.  
“There is a plain sponge cake underneath”, Jacob explains. “I didn’t know which kind of cake you like, so I kept it simple. And then Queenie and I talked about your book one night and I realised I could actually make a book.”  
“Newt likes cake in general, no matter what shape”, Tina says. She grins at him, and he can’t even protest. He does like cake, no matter what kind. He takes a closer look at the bowtruckle, carefully painted with food colouring, and maybe a little bit of magic. It is beautiful. On his shoulder, Pickett recognises his species, chirps excitedly.  
“Yes”, says Newt, turning his ear away from the bowtruckle. “That could be you, couldn’t it? Jacob definitely picked the most important creatures.” They all laugh at that, Pickett presses his body against against Newt’s neck and slowly starts to disappear under the shirt’s collar. Maybe it’s too loud for him, or maybe he thought they were making fun of him. Either way, Newt opens his arms to give Jacob a hug. “Thank you so much! And thank you for letting me stay here again. I’m sorry for spending so much time down in my suitcase.”  
Tina pours tea for Newt, and coffee for the rest of them. “As long as you come upstair now and again … You can always join us for meals, but you don’t have to.”  
He nods, looking her in the eyes. “I know. Thank you.” She gives him one of her quick smiles in return.  
Newt pulls his wand out of the pocket of his shirt, and two swift movements cut the cake into equal pieces. He takes the first one for himself.  
“Can I have one with a bit of niffler on it? He’s real cute”, Queenie asks, eyes shining. She seems as proud as if she had made the cake herself, and Jacob’s hand lies around her waist. Newt looks away. He hasn’t left his suitcase just to spend more time thinking about relationships and soulmates. Those thoughts will come again as soon as he’s alone, he should push them to the back of his mind for now. He grabs the little jug from the table and concentrates on putting just the right amount of milk into his tea.

The frosting has seeped into the cake mix in just the right way. A hint of lemon in it reminds him of the time he’s travelled through Spain and Portugal on the search for the last breeding graphorns. “I can’t possibly tell Harold that you put his picture on top of a delicious cake. The little devil would be far too proud of himself.”  
Queenie laughs about that and shrugs. “Well, he has every right to be; the baked nifflers sell really well, don’t they, honey?” Jacob, mouth full of coffee and cake, only hums.  
Newt thinks of the parchment on his desk in the suitcase. It might only have been a few weeks, but he can already pick from various enquiries. His colleagues from the Ministry have sent him cases he might be interested in, people who own different kinds of beasts would pay a lot to have him come and check up on their creatures, it seems like the plan of being a consulting magizoologist might work out. “Well, if you need new inspiration – I might travel again soon. In fact, I planned to leave after the book presentation. I’ll make sure to send you my drawing if I see anything interesting.”  
“But … that’s the day after tomorrow. You never mentioned you’d be on your way so soon”, Tina says, brows furrowed. “Where will you go?”  
Newt concentrates on the cake on his plate. Maybe he should eat a second one. He knows he should have told them earlier, but it had been a spur-of-the moment decision. Leaving right away means avoiding further interviews, means avoiding people for a while. “I think I will go to Arizona first.”  
Tina blinks at him. “Do you still miss Frank, is that why you want to travel so soon? I’m sure he’s doing fine. You can’t take care of every creature on this planet, you know that, right?” She sounds annoyed, angry at him for … For travelling? For caring about creatures?  
“Thunderbirds are not the only creatures Arizona has to offer, you know that, right?”, Newt imitates her. “And just in case you forgot – I’m trying to build a reputation, to get my name out there. Because if I don’t do that, I’ll basically be unemployed soon.”  
“If you’re going to leave us so soon, you could at least spend a bit more time upstairs”, she says, and Newt sighs. Spending time in his case – nobody, apart from maybe Dafydd, seems to understand that he needs the time alone, surrounded by creatures. He should have known that Tina would eventually complain about this. He doesn't even try to argue against her, turns back to his cake.  
  
The silence still hangs between them when Jacob clears his throat. “Getting a business running is hard work. Newt probably has a lot to prepare or to think about, it takes up so much time that it’s easier to stay down in the case, I guess. The week I opened my bakery, I hardly slept, and the only people I saw were customers.” He refills their cups, smiles at them.  
“Me being the exception”, Queenie interjects, but Jacob only smiles and shakes his head.  
“You were a customer, darling, you bought a loaf of bread.” Again, he touches her hand, and this time, their fingers stay interlocked. "Anyway, I'm sure Newt will come back to New York once he's found ... What exactly are you after?"  
Pickett has climbed out of his shirt pocket, settles in the crook of his elbow. It is a welcome distraction, the long legs searching for foothold on the rough linen. “Whatever comes my way, I guess.” Newt had spent hours looking at maps, climate diagrams and articles by fellow magizoologists before deciding to let the area surprise him. Mammals, birds, reptiles – they are all interesting enough, it doesn’t really matter what kind of creature he’ll end up finding. Queenie and Jacob smile at him, while Tina stirs in her coffee. Newt knows she’s still cross, but he also knows that he doesn’t want to apologise for the way he is. It takes a few seconds until he has collected the crumbs from his plate and has licked them off his fingers. “If you want to”, he finally says, “we could have dinner tomorrow night before I’m on my way again.” He gets a glance from Tina.  
“I’ll have a long day tomorrow, don’t know when I’ll be back. Sorry”, she mumbles. “But you’re welcome to come back and stay again, even if it’s in your case.”  
“I appreciate that.” He gives her a careful smile, and when it’s returned, Newt knows that her anger has faded.  
  
There are far more people than in London’s book store, and those sitting in the front row all belong to the press. America loves its heroes, and Newt is one of them now, no matter what he sees himself as. For a moment, he thinks about going into his case, to just hide away. After a deep breath, he’s found his courage again. No more than three hours, that’s what the bookseller had told him. He can be around people for three hours.  
The first cameras are already clicking while he’s taking his seat. On the table, there is the American version of his book with its cover in dark red and the Common Welsh Green stamped in silver instead of gold. Maybe, he realises, he should have given this edition to the President and Director Graves, not the British one with the spelling differences. Feeling Pickett move in his hair, he tries to focus. He's already spent far too much time thinking about his visit at MACUSA, and he has a job to do. Newt smiles for the cameras.  
  
MACUSA’s beast division had wanted to deal with his beasts in a quick way: find, immobilise, confiscate and kill. If that is the general American mindset … Newt has done what he can, has tried to emphasise that creatures are useful. Still, the American audience doesn’t seem convinced. Newt can see it in the faces, in the hands that are already half-raised.  
“Don’t you think it’s more important to support people rather than creatures?” is the first question, and Newt wants to cry. It's not about treating any being better than others, it's about not killing them. “Humans are creatures, too”, he says. Nobody argues, and the next person wants to know if he doesn't feel bad for keeping his creatures in a case. His answer that he's always been good at transfiguration earns him a few laughs. Newt takes a sip of water before he tells one of the journalists that he doesn't have any interest in talking about Grindelwald. His favourite animal? Too difficult to pick, but the ones he's most familiar with are hippogriffs. Yes, he will include more American creatures in his research, yes, people can ask him to sign the book, and no, Newt does not offer help via letter.  
“Would you talk about your family, Mister Scamander? Do you have a soulmate?”, one of the journalists asks, writing quill already on the parchment. Newt blinks. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. The room grows quiet, people are staring, either at him or the person who had dared to ask such a personal question. Somebody somewhere in the room clears their throat.  
“If there are no more questions regarding my work or the study of magizoology”, Newt finally says, “I’d suggest we start with the signing.” He opens the inkpott and takes the first book.  
  
“I am incredibly sorry, Mister Scamander”, the bookseller says for the third time. “The journalists were all briefed, I don’t know why anyone would ask such a question.”  
Newt gives her a tight smile. It was rude, but not unexpected. He knows that the American papers like to write about him as a hero, and it’s only normal that people want to know as much about their hero as possible. He shakes the woman’s hand. “It was worth a try, I guess. Thank you very much for hosting the event. I might come by when I’m in the area again.”  
“I hope to see you soon again. Good luck for your travels”, she says, and opens the door to her apparition room.  
Newt checks if his suitcase is closed. He ties his scarf. Pickett is hiding in the shirt pocket. “Thank you, and goodbye”, he answers before he closes his eyes and concentrates. A few seconds later, he feels the familiar pull.  
Newt stumbles, takes a few steps through the rustling leaves and puts a hand against a tree to steady himself. He breathes in and out. It’s freezing cold, snow glitters in the sunlight that falls through the trees. It is a thick forest, and it takes a few minutes until Newt has found a pathway. He casts a lasting Hot-Air Charm, pulls his coat closer around himself. The suitcase looks just like before the apparition; no torn seams, and it is still closed. “Pickett?”, he asks. “Are you okay?” The bowtruckle chirps, and it’s enough for Newt. He starts walking, and is just about to tell Pickett that it is safe to come out when he hears voices ahead of him. It’s an older couple that comes around a corner. He makes way for them, gets a nod in return. They have almost passed him, when Newt decides to ask: “Excuse me? Can you tell me which state I’m in?” He sees the curious look on the woman’s face. “I’m just not sure if I have already crossed a border”, he lies.  
“The border to New York is about thirty miles east, I’d say”, the man says. “So if you wanted to make it out of Vermont today, you could.” He laughs at the idea.  
Newt smiles politely and thanks them. Walking away, he can hear the woman comment on his suitcase and his coat. They are out of hearing too quickly, Newt doesn't understand the man’s reply. He walks until it is quiet again, until he can only hear his own breath, and concentrates on his surroundings. Broad-leaved trees, a little stream to the right, and a calming quiet. A noise makes him turn around, but he can’t see anything. Newt renews the warming spells and decides to leave the path. He can't find any clear track, though, decides to give up after a few minutes. Maybe he will have a better view from above? With the trees being leafless, it's certainly worth a try. Newt puts his case behind a tree and opens it. “Pickett, I need you to spend some time on the tree again. We’re going to fly for a while.” He smiles at the protesting chirps. “No negotiating, I just want you to be safe.” He rushes down into the case, puts Pickett on the tree and grabs his broom.  
It hadn’t been easy to start between all those trees, but once he is up in the air, Newt relaxes. The forest stretches on for miles. He descends until his can feel his feet touch the treetops. Over a clearing, he starts to fly in circles. A group of deer is bathing in the February sunlight. Newt watches them for a while before he decides that he’s seen enough. He checks the compass on the broom, flies south-west. It's a long way to Arizona, and Newt wants to arrive before nightfall.  
  
Newt has stripped out of his waistcoat, the shirt's sleeves are rolled up. He’s put the case in an abandoned cave, has secured the entrance with simple spells that should keep most creatures away. He checks in on the occamies, feeds them a few scraps of beef. Their nest is the last stop on his round, and there are beans on toast waiting for him. He decides to eat sitting in front of his step. Harold comes running towards him, but runs away again when he realises that there is no shiny cutlery he could steal.  
Five days here in Arizona, then three in California to meet the editor of the _Magizoology Journal._ And after that? Maybe back to New York to tell Director Graves he doesn’t think it unlikely to find unicorns in Vermont. Newt smiles at the thought of turning up at MACUSA again, and he can feel his cheeks get warmer. During their time at the restaurant, Newt had … No, the first moment had actually been in Graves’s office when he had compared himself to Grindelwald. Newt had looked at him, really looked at him. From the few greying strands in the dark hair to the lines on his face and the eyes. The colour had been the same, a dark brown, there had been no dangerous glint in them, no violence, only determination and kindness. Newt had liked him instantly, and wasn't that what soulmates were supposed to be, people you really, really liked without having to think about it? Graves had been a fantastic conversationalist, and he’d been interested, genuinely interested, in magizoology. Later in the evening, as they had said goodbye, Newt found himself rather unwilling to leave, and he had realised it had excited him more than it it had irritated him. Weren't soulmates people you'd want to spend more time with? Now that he had been to Vermont, had quite literally gone out of his way, he even had a reason to see Graves again. His soulmate, if liking someone and wanting to stay with them was what soulmates were about. At school, they had always said it was about a lot of feelings, about falling in love, but how is he supposed to know what falling in love feels like? He only knows the feeling of having friends, like Tina, and he's almost sure that that's not what he wants Graves to be. Then again, shouldn't a soulmate be a friend? Newt sighs, stares into the habitat's eternal summer sky. He thinks of Grindelwald, about his soulmate allegedly being useless and weak. Director Graves is anything but. What fits, though, is the part about having been one of Grindelwald's victims. Newt shudders.

Dougal appears next to him, presses his fur into his hand. “Remember how we became friends after I’d got you out of the trap?”, Newt asks. “I spent three days just sitting there and talking to you, offering you something to eat until you started to trust me a bit. That was a good technique, wasn’t it?” The demiguise purrs, makes Newt smile. He has thought about it for days now, and has come to the conclusion that Director Graves might be similar to a hurt creature. He’s gone through … a lot, no matter what exactly, and he is probably traumatised. So Newt will do what he did with every single one of the guests in his suitcase, from niffler to spider: he’ll be present, but not too close, and he’ll be patient. He'll just see where it goes, that mostly works with creatures, and humans are creatures after all. “I think we’ll go back to New York after we’re done in California”, he announces. Dougal stares at him for a few seconds, then blinks slowly. Newt blinks back.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> I hope the new year has been a good one so far—if not, here's a new chapter to brighten up your Sunday!  
> Thank you so much for your comments and the kudos or bookmarks you left during the break, every single one of them makes me happy. The next chapter will be up Sunday 28th because a) I have too much to do to write before that, b) I don't want to make a promise I can't keep and c) it's my co-author's birthday!
> 
> Without further ado—here's a chapter containing ... I was going to write a funny summary, but I don't want to spoil it for you.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**17**

The most important thing about being an auror has always been and will always be presence. Even if it doesn't always seem like it, constantly showing that there is an authority that intends to keep things in order actually does help. It had been ingrained into their minds from the first day of training on: no wizard or witch should feel left alone with their problems concerning security or magical law. If someone makes a request, you reply. If someone hears rumours, you find their source. And if someone needs help, you offer it. Graves takes a look at the letter one of the goblins from the service desks downstairs had brought to the office.  
“Anyone has a particularly soft spot for aggressive household appliances?”, he asks the team. “There was a break-in at the shop down on Cross Road, and now their kettles are exploding.”  
“Isn't that what kettles always do?”, Princley asks, Fisher next to him laughing.  
Graves glances at them. He has a long day ahead of him, no time for jokes. “Thanks for volunteering, very kind of you two. Now … We've got a new black market down at the harbour, I want Jackson and Marshall on it, compile a list of objects that are traded, the dealers, the usual. Keep your ears and eyes open, that goes for all of you, even more than usual. As you all know, we've managed to end the second Salemers for now, but that doesn't mean they won’t come back. Thanks for the excellent work goes to everyone who was involved in last week's mission. I still need the report for that, by the way.”  
Goldstein raises her hand. “You get it today, Director”, she promises. He gives her a short nod, makes a note on his parchment.  
“That’s all for now, unless one of you has something to add?” Graves uses the few seconds of silence to take a sip of his coffee. Nobody raises their hand. “Okay then”, he says. “I have a meeting with Madame President, and then I'll spend the rest of the day in my office to negotiate international security laws. Feel free to come by if there are any pressing concerns. Have a good day, everyone.” The quill scratches over the page, putting a full stop after his last word. Graves rolls the parchment together and takes his mug. He has ten minutes to get his documents, finish his coffee and maybe even take a bite off a sandwich. With big steps, he's the first one out the door.

In Graves’s opinion, the negotiations are going really well. The European aurors are working on general security rules for their continent just like Graves and the other American directors. Capturing Grindelwald has certainly revived the Security Council’s team spirit, and in a few months, they will all be able to sign the contract regarding the security of the wizarding community as a whole. Picquery flips through the pages of Graves’s report, and it’s hard to tell if she is pleased with his work. “Do we have enough aurors to consistently show presence at the border?”, she asks. Questions instead of praise – some things never change.  
“We did not increase the number of aurors for border protection”, Graves says, “but as we don't face immediate threats, it should be enough. Director Rodriguez and I are in the middle of our policy negotiations, and I expect one or two of our juniors to take a job at one of our borders. We have five young people starting training this year.”  
Picquery takes her time going through the report he'd handed in earlier before she looks up again. “So there are no actual results yet, no draft bills? I have a meeting with the British Minister of Magic next week, will there be any progress until then?”  
“Nothing worth mentioning to the Minister, I'm afraid. The British have sent me a few files to keep me updated on the progress of European negotiations, but that's all I have so far. London will host the next international conference at the beginning of April, we will be able to decide on portkey and floo powder regulations.”  
The parchments sort themselves into two piles, one for the president and one for him. Picquery offers her hand, they both get up, and Graves is on his way back to the office.  
  
“Jackson and I have just come back, Director. They sell all sorts of rubbish down at the harbour. Non-licenced, of course.”, Marshall tells him when they meet in the coffee kitchen. “Fake wands, cheap goblets, potion ingredients. And one guy asked if we were interested in dragon eggs, said he could get us any kind and as many as we wanted.”  
Graves pours coffee into both his and her mug. They haven’t had creatures involved in smuggling in a few months. “Did he say where he’d get them?”, he asks, although he can already guess the answer. Every somewhat professional smuggler uses an intermediary.  
Marshall watches two sugar cubes sink into her coffee and sighs. “A friend, of course.”  
“Of course”, he echoes. “Thank you for investigating, I’ll notify Collins and then we’ll have a staff meeting.” Graves takes his coffee, checks his watch and rushes to his office.  
  
The house elves have lit the fire, the room is so warm that Graves considers taking off his suit jacket. He unlocks a drawer, takes out the cigar box in which he keeps the Floo powder. Throwing a handful into the flames, he calls: “Director Collins, if you have a minute?” It only takes a few seconds until the head of the Beast Department steps out of the fireplace.  
“You wanted to see me?” Collins, as tall and pale as ever, mumbles a quick cleaning spell and adjusts his glasses before giving a short and limp handshake. Sitting down, Graves decides to phrase it as directly as possible. He doesn't want a long conversation, he wants a solution to a problem.  
“My colleagues were offered dragon eggs at a black market, various species.” He remembers the Common Welsh Green on Scamander’s book, and the chapter dedicated to dragons. There hadn't been much information on dragon eggs. If found, they should be kept warm, humans should stay a few feet away and inform a magizoologist or a dragonologist. Graves doesn't know which qualification Collins has. But even if he's not an expert on dragons, he is the best the Beast Department has to offer. “We'd appreciate your help with the creatures.”  
Collins seems unimpressed, doesn’t even blink. “I’ll send one or two people who will get rid of them for you, no problem. It won’t take long, you’ll have the crime scene to yourself in no time. Notifying me the morning of the raid will be enough.”

Graves furrows his brows. The way his colleague had phrased it, the whole mission sounds like a walk in the park. “It’s your decision how many people you send, but I think we should keep in mind that there might be a lot of dragon eggs, maybe even other valuable creatures. Smugglers tend to offer whatever they think might sell.”  
He receives a tired, almost condescending smile for an answer. “Trust me, Director, we don't need more than two people to be able to dispose of whatever creatures we find.”  
“Dispose of?”, Graves asks, eyebrows raised. “What do you do with them once you've removed creatures from a crime scene?”  
“Oh, they get processed. Dragon liver, dragon blood, dragon skin, dragon horn – you can almost use the whole animal.” Collins looks almost happy now, and Graves thinks of Scamander whose eyes had sparkled with excitement as he'd explained how his suitcase helped preserve and protect endangered creatures. He probably knows at least one dragonologist who could help. And if not – Graves thinks it realistic that Scamander would let dragons live in his case so others couldn't lay a hand on them … But it doesn't matter how much Graves wishes to contact Scamander, ask for his advice. There is no time, neither to start a discussion about the way Collins talks about creatures nor to send a letter that might have to travel halfway across the world. Graves will have to make do with MACUSA's Beast Department. He thanks Director Collins for his time, ensures him that he doesn't doubt his competence, and promises to send a message to the department the moment he knows when he'll need their assistance.  
The moment Collins has disappeared, through the door this time, Graves takes his cup of coffee into both hands to heat it up again. There's still the envelope Scamander had sent, his colleague Scamander this time, not the potential soulmate. It’s a whole stack of paper that will take him at least two hours to read through. There is no point in starting now, not when it's almost time for his next meeting. Graves sips on his coffee and stares into the logs that gleam in the fireplace.

At two o'clock sharp, Kerehoma's head pops up between the fading flames. “Good morning”, he says.  
“Good afternoon”, Graves replies. “How are you?”  
“Oh, if you leave aside that my Quidditch team lost an important game last night, I can't complain. Thank you for giving me an appointment, I can imagine you're just as busy as I am.”  
Graves decides not to comment on Quidditch. He's never played it and hardly follows the news about it, only occasionally looks at the tables because it makes for a good small talk topic with international colleagues. Today is not about small talk, though. Kerehoma had asked him for an appointment, had wanted to discuss an important topic. “I certainly don't get bored”, he only says, receives laughter for an answer.  
“Well …” Kerehoma seems to hesitate. “I was hoping I could ask you for a favour, a rather unusual and personal one. It's about-” He stops talking when someone knocks on the door.  
“Yes?”, Graves calls and takes a sip of his coffee. Goldstein opens the door, waves with a roll of parchment. She looks at him sitting in front of the fire, then notices Kerehoma’s head in the flames.  
“I’ve finished the report we talked about this morning, Director”, she says. “I’d call it a day, if you don’t mind.”  
He waves his hand. She’s probably collected enough extra hours to stay at home for the rest of the week, half a day is the least she deserves. Aurors who wear themselves out are no use for the department. “Just put it on top of the document mountain that is my desk. Enjoy your afternoon, Goldstein”, he says.  
She takes her wand, lets the parchment float through the room. “Thank you, see you tomorrow, Director”, she says, then looks at Kerehoma. “Goodbye, Sir. I’m sorry for interrupting.”  
“Don’t worry about it, Miss; enjoy the rest of your day.” He gives her a quick smile. Goldstein shuts the door from the outside.  
Graves sips on his coffee. “You have a favour to ask”, he repeats, leaving out the adjectives _unusual_ and _personal_ – Graves doesn’t know what to expect.  
Kerehoma nods. “Yes. Well, it’s about one of your aurors, actually.” Graves raises his eyebrows. His team had brought Grindelwald into the interrogation room, but that had been all. As far as he can remember, there hadn’t been any interaction between MACUSA’s team and the international guests. Kerehoma clears his throat. “I’ve found my soulmate, and now I … If I could visit you a few times, that'd already be enough.”  
A soulmate? He hadn’t expected that. It is indeed a personal matter, and Graves’s wants to say that he has no intention of meddling in anyone’s private affairs. But he also remembers the books he’s read on the matter, the stories of people who had spent ages trying to find their soulmates. Kerehoma is only asking for an invitation, nothing but the opportunity to talk. It makes Graves think of Scamander who had appeared at MACUSA of the blue. Maybe he should write to him, just to tell him that he’d enjoyed the company. If one short, formal letter can lead to dinner together, then maybe a second one might lead to another. He clears his throat and looks into the fire again. “If you send me your schedule, I’m sure we’ll be able to find a date for a first appointment.” The promise makes relief spread on his colleague’s face.  
“Thank you so much, Director”, Kerehoma repeats a few times. “It really means a lot to me.”  
It’s quiet for a moment, then Kerehoma sighs, says he should probably get back to work. Graves nods. There are far too many documents for far too few hours, and the coffee has gone cold again. It looks like he’ll have to take a few things home if he wants to have a cleared desk tomorrow morning. “I’m looking forward to receiving your owl”, he says. “See you soon, I guess.” Kerehoma laughs before his head vanishes from the fire. 

Graves has a fresh cup of coffee and a stack of letters in front of him. The Wand Permit Office has sent their monthly figures and a summary of their activities. There hasn’t been a lot of fake wand trading in the past month, but Graves knows that this might very well mean MACUSA has received less complaints. The rubbish offered by street vendors in dark alleyways, in busy places or in some of the many wizarding inns, sells like hot cake, thanks to the mass of tourists that swamps the city every week. As soon as MACUSA shuts down someone’s business, they simply move to a different borough, take on a different name or let someone else take over. Graves scribbles his signature and the date on the bottom of the page. Some of the letters are reminders for weekly appointments with Picquery or some of the other directors, one is a letter from his sister and another one from his goddaughter. He puts those two letters to the side to take them home later. Then there is the envelope with the Ministry of Magic’s seal on it, and a smaller one with MACUSA’s logo imprinted in the expensive silver stationery. It’s only the first week of March. He lets the unopened envelope fall into the bin. He knows he will get at least two reminders before the actual event, will pretend to ignore them and then turn up anyway because he has no other choice. With a sigh, Graves opens the English package. MACUSA’s letter had ruined his mood already, he might as well spend his time reading about Grindelwald’s impact on Europe’s security laws.  
  
Rupert clicks his beak. He eyes the piece of chicken floating in front of him, seems unsure.  
“I promise it’s not seasoned”, Graves says, turning the meat in the pan. Rupert has made his decision and swallows the food as a whole, looks at his owner expectantly. “Not a chance. The rest is mine. You can always catch mice, you know that.” He yawns.  
Although he had left his office almost the second he’d finished the summary of the European negotiations, he’d come home much later than he had planned to. If he keeps going on like this, he’ll have to listen to one of Burns's endless speeches about overtime, holidays and the balance between life inside of and outside of MACUSA. Graves blinks a few times to shake off the exhaustion. It doesn't work. He is far too tired to eat, but he can’t go to bed with an empty stomach. It might increase the danger of having a nightmare, and that is the last thing Graves needs. The cup of tea that is supposed to help him sleep is already waiting for him. Balancing the pan and a few slices of bread to the table, Graves manages to get a few sprinkles of sauce on one sleeve. He doesn’t even bother performing a cleaning spell, but simply takes off the shirt, leaves it hanging over the chair and wraps himself in a warming spell. He’ll have to go to the cleaner’s soon, and to the shops. Maybe he’ll manage to leave the office earlier tomorrow, he might even be able to go to the library, or he could spend the evening answering Lynette’s and Mary’s letters. Especially Lynette’s. She’s written page after page about how long they haven’t spoken, and how much his nephew misses him. She had even found it necessary to remind him of their father’s birthday in June – as if he’d forget it! He might occasionally have missed Christmas or Thanksgiving, but never a family birthday. Maybe he’ll send her a short answer, ask her to floo at some point during the weekend. It will be good for him as well, take his mind of things. But right now, it would be best to get to bed as quickly as possible. With one finger, he lets the cutlery float to the sink, flinches when it clatters. He stumbles into the bathroom, from there to the bedroom and is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely people!
> 
> thank you so much for your comments and the kudos and bookmarks! I answered them all—one was written under the first chapter, and I've put my answer there, too.  
> Of course we would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter as well. I'm sorry to have left you waiting, by the way. I know I had promised to update last week, but real life got into the way of writing. It won't in the next few weeks, though—I should be able to upload February 11.
> 
> I hope you all like this chapter!  
> Love  
> shortbread
> 
> Today's chapter is a special one! Not only because Newt and Graves seem to make progress in their non-existent relationship (look at me actually mentioning that word instead of writing about slowly burning slow burn), but also because today is the birthday of one half of shortbread (the comment answering one, unless it's questions regarding the writing)!
> 
> Dear Slytherin half of this account  
> Happy birthday! Thanks for dragging me into this fandom in the first place, and thanks for helping me turn our joke of "let's write a fanfic!" into this. Even though I am the one doing all the writing, I couldn't do it without you! Thanks for answering all my random questions or choosing between options I give you, thanks for repeatedly telling me that nobody cares about all those minor details I always worry about, thanks for stopping me from starting a completely different fanfic when this one isn't even finished (it was a fantastic idea for about one day and I couldn't find a title, and you basically saved everyone from the worst fanfiction ever), and thanks for not losing patience with me re-arranging the time line almost every single chapter. You're the best co-author ever, and I'm very proud of our fanfic!
> 
> Lots of love  
> the Hufflepuff half of shortbread  
> Ps: If you think my dedication is ridiculously emotional, you are probably right. Blame it on my house, we both know that works every single time.

**18**

 

The bird sketchbook has new drawings in it, and there are a few beetles living in a corner of his case now. Newt has been able to compile a decent list of animals that could be used for potions, and he has collected a few ingredients. Rattlesnake skin, pieces of a dead scorpion, and a vial of lizard saliva. The Apothecary in Diagon Alley will gladly take all of it, Newt already knows that from his time in Wales. He carefully folds the snake skin, stores in in a box under the desk. In the dark corner, a house spider is weaving a net. On the table, there is not only dinner waiting, but also a stack of paper. He takes a first bite of his toast and the first letter.

 _Dear Mister Scamander,  
_ _I am pleased to send you the invitation to MACUSA’s annual Spring Party which is to be used as ticket on March 11. The hotel room has been booked and paid for, I have enclosed a copy of your reservation._

 _Kind regards_  
_Gladys Allen_  
_\- Secretary to Augustus Worme, Obscurus Books London PLC -_

Newt blinks. In his latest letter, Worme hadn’t mentioned any invitations. Looking at the hotel reservation, it’s obvious why. Three nights for a price that would get him an occamy egg on the black market. The invitation is just as personal as it has to be, a text telling him how delighted MACUSA would be if he were to come to their party. Newt bites his lips. Getting an invitation is nothing new; the British wizarding community is tightly-knit. As a child, attending a party had been easy—he had eaten as much dessert as possible and then he’d befriended the pets of the hosting family. Newt doubts that a spring party at MACUSA will be anything like that. He will have to talk to people he doesn’t know, people who only care for him because he is a famous person, an author, a hero. But with the invitation having Picquery’s signature on it and the hotel room already booked there is no way Newt can decline. One evening of polite, superficial conversation … He sighs. Maybe he can find an excuse to leave early, he has always been good at that.

The weather doesn’t seem to care that it’s not even spring yet. It is warm enough to sit outside without a coat or scarf, makes Newt realise how much he has missed spring. He will soon have baby graphorns in his case, and probably even more bowtruckles because he still hasn’t asked Ollivander for advice on relocating them. He watches a sandsnake curl up under a rock and looks up when he hears thunderbird calls somewhere. There are two shadows up in the sky, both of them big enough to be adults, and they are coming closer. As long as they don’t see him as prey … He stays completely still while the thunderbirds descend. One of them has something in their claws, and they seem determined to defend it. For a few second, everything is a mess of feathers, then one of the thunderbirds files off, and the other one lands on a rock, starts to rip a small deer to pieces. The scars on the thunderbird’s legs, the eye colour and the spotted feather on his breast—t’s Frank. It’s Frank, and he is obviously doing well, hunting on his own and defending prey against others.  
Newt doesn’t dare move, watches the deer disappear piece by piece until there are only bones and intestines left. “You’re having a great life here, don’t you, Frank?”, he asks, wand gripped tightly, ready to apparate in case the creature doesn’t recognise him.  
The thunderbird looks straight at him, tilts his large head. The whole desert seems to shake when he steps from the rock into the sand. Frank’s beak comes closer and closer, until it touches Newt’s shoulder. It’s only a gentle push, but still strong enough to have Newt land flat on his back. He breathes in and out, careful not to move. Frank’s beak combs through his hair, before he lets out a cackle that makes Newt’s ears ring. It’s the same sound he used to make when he was happy about bandages being removed or food being brought. With a few flaps of his wings, the thunderbird is up in the air again, and Newt watches him disappear. He stays there for a few minutes, on his back in the sand of the Arizonian desert, grinning towards the sky. They’ve done it—he has managed to nurse a grown thunderbird back to health, and Frank has managed to find his place in the wild. Newt couldn’t be prouder.

Everything in this hotel seems expensive, from the tap in the bathroom to the bedsheets. Whenever he leaves the suitcase, Newt makes sure to double check the locks because if Harold escaped, he’d possibly drag half the interior down into his burrow. The day had been quiet. In the morning, he had sent out letters to confirm his next few jobs in England, he’d gone out for lunch and spent the afternoon lying on the large bed with its soft duvet, reading through his notes and dozing off. Now he is lying in the bathtub and can’t convince himself to leave it quite yet. Washing off the desert dust had been nice, but being able to float in warm water is heavenly. He still has an hour to get out of the water, to dress and to apparate or walk to the building where MACUSA holds the party, the Central Wizarding Bank of America. He’d rather wrap himself in the hotel’s soft towel and fall back into bed. Newt takes a deep breath and dives one last time.  
  
“Allow me to take your coat, Sir”, one of the house elves says. Newt hesitates. If the party is outside, shouldn’t he keep it? It is a layer of protection, he likes being able to hide in it, and he doesn’t plan on staying long anyway. “You may take it with you, Sir, but the area is heated, Sir.” The house elf blink and waits patiently. Newt nods and decides to leave the coat with the house elf. If the party turns out to be as boring as he expects it to be, he will at least have made a creature happy.

The view is breathtaking. The lamps and candles of the city glitter somewhere below the building, make it seem like the rooftop is a large ship in a sea of lights. People are sitting on benches or stand around, glasses in hands and taking bites from snacks they take from silver trays.He shouldn’t have come. He doesn’t know anyone here, he is tired, and why would he enjoy celebrating the new season on some rooftop in the middle of a city when he could go to a garden instead, where he’d be able to actually experience nature? He wonders if it’s too late to to back to the hotel.

“Nice to see you, Mister Scamander”, comes Picquery’s voice from his right. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”  
“Thank you for inviting me, Madame President”, he answers. So it had been her idea. She probably thought she might do him a favour, increase his popularity by giving him the chance to meet important people. Newt looks around. If half of the people here went home, it would still feel like too many.  
Picquery takes a champagne flute off a tray, hands it to him and raises her own. She looks almost regal with her large turban and the golden jewellery shining in the light of the flames. “Have a good evening, Mister Scamander!”  
He thanks her again, they both take a sip, and then he is alone again, surrounded by too many faces and too many names. A lot of people stand in groups, most of them are gathered at the bar. The balcony rail looks nice—nice and less crowded. He could go there, enjoy the view, eat some snacks and then go back to the hotel, quietly, without much attention. Newt holds his champagne glass a bit tighter and concentrates on his steps.  
He gets past most people, until he mumbles a “sorry” when his arm almost brushes against that of a woman. Instead of no reply or a quick, dismissive one, he hears his name. “Newt?”  
The second he looks up is the second he wishes he hadn’t. His mouth goes dry, he takes a sip of his drink. “Leta”, he says. “What are you doing here?” After all these years, her smile is still the same.  
  
Newt didn’t know Leta had relatives in America, but then again, he hasn’t talked to her since they’d been sixteen. He shakes hands with the man who introduces himself as Shields, working in the Department of No-Maj Misinformation.  
“Newt and I went to school together”, Leta tells her distant cousin, or whatever he is. “We were friends, but then we lost contact. And now we meet here, isn’t that fantastic?”  
It seems to easy for her to make it sound like nothing ever happened. She asks if he enjoys his success, but does not even give him the chance to answer. “Newt has just released his book. I’ve bought it, of course. I am so impressed with your career!”  
Of course she’d say something like that. “Thank you”, he says as politely as he can manage. “It was-” He wants to tell them it was nice to meet them, but again, she is quicker.  
“Oh, are you here for longer? Because we have this garden party next week, and you could come by. It would be so much fun, like old times!”  
Newt breathes out. She shouldn't say things like that without apologising. Actually, she shouldn't say things like that at all. Does she really expect him to accept a half-hearted invitation after what she's done? She is trying to use him, like she always has. He remembers the jarvey, the screams of the other students, blood on the dark stone tiles …  
Leta voice comes through to him: “Are you okay?” Her fingers touch his arm, he can feel the grip through the layers of fabric. What makes her think she could touch him? He takes a step back, she lets go of his hand, and Newt almost stumbles, but then there is a hand on his back, steadying him.  
“Careful!”, someone says, and then: “Mister Scamander? I hadn’t expected to meet you here, but it’s nice to see you.” The hand disappears from Newt’s back, leaving his skin warm and his spine tingling. He should have known, he could even have searched for him the second he'd come here—it is a MACUSA party after all, and there are few people in the ministry that are as important as Director Graves.  
Newt gives him a shaky smile. “Thank you”, he says, not sure what he is more grateful for—that he didn’t fall or that he is no longer alone with Leta and her relative. It really is calming to have him here; he is probably much better at making small talk than Newt is, and Leta surely won’t be as mean when they have company.  
Graves looks nice in his dark suit, like he is used to New York City rooftop parties. Even the knot of his necktie looks more elegant than the basic ones that Newt had learned as a teenager. “Mister Shields, Miss.” He doesn’t bother asking for her name, but does offer his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”  
Shields raises his glass. “Likewise, Director. Are you enjoying the party?”  
“I am”, Graves replies. “Just like every year.” His neutral tone makes it impossible to say if he actually means it, but it’s good enough for Leta.  
“It is an excellent location”, she says. “It is so very different from the parties we have in England, isn’t it, Newt?” There is that sweet smile again.  
Something feels like fingertips grazing his shoulders, and Newt bites his lips. Pickett. The bowtruckle had been clingy the past few days, must have hidden somewhere in the bathroom and then crawled into his shirt. And now he is bored, wants some fresh air. It takes a few seconds until Newt realises that everybody is looking at him, that Leta is waiting for an answer. “Yes”, he mumbles. If he wanted to, he could excuse himself, go to the bathroom and avoid a potentially embarrassing situation. Then again, he realises, he doesn’t care. Leta has been nothing but rude, she deserves the shock. Newt empties his champagne and waits.  
  
“We should have stricter rules concerning No-Majs”, Shields says, and Newt wonders what on earth those rules should look like when you’re already supposed to obliviate any muggle you’ve met. “There shouldn’t be any-” He stops talking, stares at the bowtruckle climbing from Newt’s shoulder to the pocket of his suit jacket. Leta stares, too, and in her eyes is nothing of the love for all creatures that she had once pretended to have.  
“Isn’t it illegal to own a creature such as this one, Mister Scamander?”, Shield asks, his voice gone cold. “I could report you for that.”  
“You couldn’t”, Newt replies, and it feels good to be in the right. One quick look at Graves who doesn’t seem bothered at all. “That’s only Pickett.”  
Shields waves his hand. “I don’t care what it is. It could be dangerous! I’ll file a complaint first thing tomorrow.”  
Graves clears his throat. “That would be my department, I guess”, he says. There is a hardness in his voice that makes even Leta draw in a breath. Newt wonders if that is how he talks when he is dealing with people like Grindelwald. “Bowtruckles are more useful than dangerous, if I remember correctly. Mister Scamander has a permanent permit, and I trust he makes responsible decisions concerning his creatures. So feel free to write a few lines, Mister Shields, but I’d prefer if you didn’t. I’m sure you can understand my hatred of unnecessary paperwork.” It’s quiet for a moment. Pickett has settled in the pocket, only the top of his head and the eyes are peaking out. He is hardly visible. Shields avoids eye contact, and Leta busies herself with her bracelet. Newt is still thinking about an appropriate reaction when Graves turns to him. “Would you mind a few words in private, Mister Scamander?”  
Newt shakes his head. “Of course not. Goodbye, Leta. Have a good evening.”  
“Good evening”, Graves adds and turns around. Newt follows, doesn't look back.  
  
They are almost alone here. It’s a quieter part of the roof, half hidden behind a chimney. Newt hadn’t even noticed it when he’d come up here, but Graves seems to know his way around. Maybe MACUSA always picks the same location for their parties. Graves points to a bench near a large fire bowl, and Newt sits down. “I’m sorry”, he says just to be on the safe side.  
“I’m sorry”, Graves echos, his voice much softer now. “On Shields’s behalf. Please don’t take his attack on your bowtruckle personally, it is not the first time he confuses his pedantry with our laws.”  
Oh. Newt breathes out, feeling lighter. “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time something like this happened. You get used to it, I guess … Thank you for defending me. And thanks for giving me an excuse to escape the whole situation.”  
“You didn’t seem to enjoy the company.” Graves turns an empty glass between his fingers.  
He looks curious, and Newt knows that he should give an explanation. “We used to … When we were at school, there was an … an accident. Or incident. She …” It has been years, and the memory still makes him feel dizzy. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not talk about it”, Newt eventually manages to get out, breathes deeply.  
Graves views him closely, seems to read him, eyes fixed on Newt's. He tilts his head ever so slightly, opens his mouth, closes it again. Newt swallows, Graves smiles. "Of course not. I hope my question didn't cross a line." His face looks warm and soft in the shine of the fire and he seems to understand. For a split second, Newt wonders what would happen if he stretched out his hand and touched Graves’s hand. Or if he mentioned the wampus paw on his arm. But then one of them blinks, and Newt casts his thoughts away. “Can I get you a drink?”, he asks, nodding towards the empty glass. “Champagne, wine, firewhisky? Do you even have that here?”  
Graves laughs about that. “We occasionally adopt European products. Ogden's actually has a large distillery not too far from the city. We also have prairie whiskey, if you want to try something American. I'll just take water, thank you.” His surprise must be evident on his face—Graves sighs. “I haven’t touched alcohol since Grindelwald because … Well, I guess we both have things we'd rather not discuss.”  
Newt wonders if he should apologise. But Graves doesn’t seem like someone who wants pity. “I’m sure we’ll find something else to talk about”, he says instead, grabs the glasses and finds his way to the bar.  
  
Newt’s cough makes Graves laugh. “Now you know why you were not given more.”  
Newt pulls a face, then he licks his lips. Smokey and rich, the American whisky burns in his throat. “It tastes good, but I don’t think I’ll have another one.” He shouldn't. The champagne and the tiny sip of whisky are more than enough to make him feel warm and happy. Or maybe it’s the company? Either way, he is warm and happy and that’s nice. “I kept my promise, by the way”, he grins, “ and went up to Vermont.”  
“You did?” Graves looks like he hadn’t expected that at all. “So what is your professional opinion?”  
“Cold.” Newt grins, and Graves laughs into his water, shakes his head. “I’m not joking, it was freezing. Anyway, I had a look around, and the forest was very nice, and I don’t see why there shouldn’t be any unicorns living in it.”  
Graves turns towards him, amusement blinking in his eyes. “If you knew how many hours of my childhood I’ve spent staring out into the woods just to see another unicorn … Thank you, Mister Scamander.”  
“Newt”, he corrects, and because Graves doesn’t react, he offers his hand. “It's short for Newton.”  
“Percival. It's short for Percival.”, Graves replies, keeping a straight face. His hand is just as warm as it had been earlier when it had touched Newt’s back. Maybe even warmer. Because of the fire or the alcohol or both.  
Percival. Like the knight of Arthur’s round table. It doesn't sound like he would appreciate any form of abbreviation, but that's okay. Newt will get used to the three syllables. Graves straightens his back and lets go of Newt’s hand. “I had wanted to write to you again, to ask for your advice, Newton”, he says and it’s the first time in years anyone has called Newt his full name. It’s strange, but not in a bad way. He doesn’t bother correct him.  
“Well, Percival”, Newt smiles. “I wanted to come by your office again to tell you about unicorns in Vermont, but I told you here. So I guess you can save some parchment, if you want.”  
“I have a goddaughter, Mary. I promised her I’d give her an owl for her second year at Ilvermorny, and I thought you might be able to tell me what to take into account when choosing one.”  
Newt furrows his brows. He hardly ever gets to talk about owls. Everybody has one, and that’s it. If people want to buy one, they have the employees at the stores, they don’t need him for that. Which is a shame. Owls are beautiful and majestic and choosing one is usually a lot of fun. He looks into the fire, feels Percival’s gaze on him. It has to be good advice. A child’s first owl is important, and it’s not just anyone asking, it’s Percival. “Shiny feathers, shiny eyes, healthy claws, beak not chipped”, he finally says, chews on his lip. “In the end, you shouldn’t have to have the last word anyway. Your goddaughter should choose her owl, and the owl should choose her.”  
Percival shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “My goddaughter is an eleven year old girl, Newton. If she had her way, she’d open her own owlery. Is there no … I don’t know, especially child-friendly owl breed? Are there general rules?”  
Newt laughs. “Injuries from a small beak hurt less?”, he jokes and thinks of his mother’s hippogriffs, and of Frank in Arizona. Percival doesn’t look like he finds it particularly funny.

He puts the empty tumbler on the bench, warms his hands on the fire. Percival smiles at him, and Newt takes a deep breath to clear his head. He's glad he didn't drink more of that whisky, just enough to blurt out his idea. “I could come with you, if you want”, he suggests. “To make sure you buy a good one.” It makes sense, Newt thinks. Why should he try and give theoretical advice when he could look at the creatures in a shop. He could teach Graves's goddaughter how to care for it, they could pick the right kind of cage, the best owl treats.  
Percival shakes his head, raises a hand. “You really don’t have to. Who knows how long Mary will want to spend in the shop; I’m sure you have more things to do than to spend all day wandering around an owl shop.”  
“But I'd like to come with you”, Newt holds against that. “I haven’t properly looked at owls in years, not from a scientific viewpoint anyway, and spending time with creatures never bores me. You can buy me lunch, if that makes you feel better. Thinking about it, I should probably pay you because you'll have to endure all my talking. Sorry in advance.”  
Percival sighs, and he looks like he is sorry. Newt isn't sure what for. Has he said something wrong?. “Don't apologise for being an expert at something. Listening to you is the whole point of asking for your advice. Like you said: you make sure we buy a good owl. And I'd like to invite you to dinner again.” Dinner again. They will be alone, and maybe Newt could use the opportunity to ... They are also alone right now, well, almost alone. Newt blinks, and Percival apparently mistakes it for confusion. “It’s what we did last time”, he explains, “to repay you.”  
Newt wants to tell him that they can have dinner whenever they want, that there is no need for favours or repayments. He wants Percival to know he agrees to this because he enjoys the company, not to clear an abstract kind of debt. “I'm looking forward to it”, he says instead.  
Graves only nods, warms his hands on the fire, and the silence between them gives Newt the chance to think.  
He knows they should talk about mammals instead of birds, wampuses instead of owls, but maybe dinner really is the better choice for that. They are still at a MACUSA party, it's just not the right place. And there is no rush because Newt knows now. Soulmates. The two syllables hammer in his head. He had known he’d liked Graves, Percival, but today he had actually felt it. The comfort, the warmth, the feeling of just understanding each other. It’s like his mum had said, like his grandma had told him: he knows, just like that. And Percival should know it to because that’s how it works. It doesn’t mean they won’t need to speak about it, but imagining that Percival, sitting next to him right now, might feel the same, makes Newt so happy that he smiles into the darkness.  
He’s had a long day, feels like he could feel asleep any minute. The noise from the party has died down, and the fire in front of them has lost its power. Little blue flames lick on the coals. Percival’s face seems to blur into the dark, even the glow from his white shirt has started to fade. Newt can hardly see Percival’s face anymore. And yet, he doesn’t want to be the first one to move. He wants to stay. Just a little longer.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely people!
> 
> Thank you so much for your feedback, as always. I was surprised at the amount of kudos we got this time, I take it as a compliment :)
> 
> I hope you like this chapter! It took me a long time to write because I wanted to use the right words for something as important in the plot as this – I hope I've found them.  
> The next one will come online on February 25.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**19**

He has happily left the task of getting coffee to Kerehoma just because Goldstein usually drinks her first afternoon cup round that time. As long as it’s warm when he gets it, Graves doesn’t mind waiting for his coffee. It’s almost reassuring: Grindelwald didn’t influence Kerehoma in the slightest, and yet it seems to take him some time to actually ask Goldstein out.  
“Here you go.” Kerehoma puts two mugs on the table in the office, closes the door.  
Fifteen minutes, twenty maximum, until Kerehoma will floo back to his own office. Graves thinks of the spring party that he had mostly spent in a more quiet corner of the roof until the fire in the large bowls had burned down, with Scamander—Newton—sitting next to him, radiating comfort and warmth. This morning, a memo from the Transportation Department had confirmed the portkey arrival time for Friday. Only a few days until they will have dinner together. Graves knows that they will have to talk. It wouldn’t be fair to keep quiet. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Same time next week?”, he asks although he already knows the answer.  
  
MACUSA’s entry hall is significantly more empty on Saturday mornings. A house elf polishes the bronze of the Salem memorial, and the one at the wand polishing desk straightens his back but Graves walks past them. The portkey arrival rooms are in the back of the ground floor, right next to a lift. The door opens for him, and several wizards and witches look up from their parchments and breakfasts. “Good morning, Sir”, one of them says. “Can I help you?”  
He shakes his head. “I'm only here to pick someone up, room three.”  
The witch checks a long piece of parchment, quill on her fingers. “Should arrive within a few minutes”, she says. “They activated the portkey in London at half past sharp.”  
Before Graves can take a look at his pocket watch, there’s a noise in one of the portkey rooms, something is falling, clattering on the stone floor.  
It only takes a few seconds for a rather pale Scamander to appear in the room. He runs his hand through his curls, takes a deep breath. “Hello.”  
“Good morning, Sir, and welcome to America”, the portkey supervisor says. “Would you like something against nausea?” She dips a quill into an inkpot and pulls a document from a folder.  
“Thank you, but I think fresh air will do the trick” Newton comes to the desk, puts an empty bottle on it. A British beer brand, label almost peeled off. “There’s a crack in the portkey, but I think you should be able to fix it. Where do I sign?”  
“I need your signature here”, she says, “and your fingerprints here.”  
He blinks. “They already took my fingerprints in London, made me travel all the way down to the Ministry for that.”  
“New safety regulations”, she explains. “On the form, you indicated that you’re bringing a suitcase? With creatures and beasts?”  
Newt scribbles his name on the document and offers his right hand. Graves can see him flinch as she takes it. She works quickly, pressing finger after finger to the inkpad and the document. “It’s in my coat”, Scamander tells the witch. “And I have permits.”  
She presses his little finger into the inkpad. “We have already received copies from the Ministry of Magic, Sir, I was just wondering how you’d carry it. You’re almost done here.” That seems to be the signal for her colleagues. They draw their wands, and Newt shivers under the impact of the Revelio charm. The witch gives him a smile, mumbles a quick Tergeo to remove the drying ink from his fingertips. “Thank you, that’s it.” She attaches the parchment with his signature to the one with his fingerprints, and pulls out a folder. “If you require a portkey back to England, please send your owl at least two weeks ahead. Enjoy your time in the US.”  
Scamander mumbles his thanks before turning around and finally looking at Graves. “Morning”, he says. “Do you think I could get a cup of tea before we’re on our way?”  
“Of course”, Graves answers. Surely, the house elves have something in their kitchen.  
  
Cross Road is swarming with people. Newt looks around, and Graves doesn’t say anything about the hand that is still lying on his arm. “This city”, Newt notes after a few seconds, “has too many people in it.”  
“I’m sure they won’t all want to buy owls. The shop is over there, just across the street. The large blue sign, that’s it.” He nods towards it as he starts walking.  
“ _The Perfect Pet_?”, Newt read, grins at Graves. “What a creative name …” He lets go of Graves’s arm. “Anything I should know about your goddaughter before I meet her?”  
“Just stop her from buying half the shop”, Graves says. “That’s all.”  
Newt mumbles something that sounds like “I’d love to buy half the shop”, and in the reflection, Graves can see his eyes gleam. For that alone, it was already worth taking him here. Before Graves can ask how many owls could possibly fit into his suitcase, Burns and his daughter appear in front of the store. Mary’s arms wrap around him. Her head bumps into his stomach, and she grins up at him with the smile she definitely inherited from her father.  
“Uncle Percival, I brought a book that can help us choose an owl!”  
“Did you?”, Graves asks, although he can feel the cardboard dig into his side. “I brought a friend, Newton, who might be able to help us as well. He knows a lot about all kinds of creatures.” She looks up at him, then at Scamander, and chews on her lip, like she always does when she is nervous. “Hello”, she mumbles into Graves’s jacket.  
“Hey”, Newton says. “ _The Big Book of Owls_ , that’s a great book. Do you already know what kind of owl you want?”  
It’s quiet for a moment. Mary seems to be deep in thoughts. “I want a girl owl”, she tells Graves more than anyone else.  
That makes Newton laugh. “My owl is a girl, too. Her name is Iris.”  
“I want my owl to be called Princess!”, Mary declares, and her father sighs.  
“Maybe”, Burns says, “that is not the best name for an owl, honey.”  
Before Graves has the chance to support his friend, Newton cuts it. “Names with two syllables are actually ideal for pets. Like Rupert, or Iris—or Princess.” He only smiles at Graves pulling a face.  
Mary looks relieved that someone agrees with her. “Can we go inside together?”, she asks, now looking at Newton. He opens the door for them, and the girl walks ahead, the owl book under her arm.  
“Oh.” Newton looks like he is only just noticing Burns. He seems to hesitate for a moment before stretching his hand out. “Hello. Newt Scamander, magizoologist. I promise I’ll make sure your daughter chooses a good owl.”  
“Thank you in advance, I guess?”, Burns replies. “My name’s Bob Burns, went to school with Percival.”  
Newton glances at Percival. “Were you a Pukwudgie?” Graves grins, partly about the memory of their first dinner together and the realisation that there will soon be a second one, partly about the confused look on Burns’s face. Before he can answer, Mary comes running through the door and tells them all that she found the best and cutest owl. While Graves and Burns bite their lips, Scamander manages to look impressed. “I’d love to see the best owl. And I know a trick to befriend owls very quickly.” Percival watches his goddaughter beam at Newton, and then they disappear into the dimly lit owl shop together.  
“Eh”, Burns goes and furrows his brows. “He’s the one who’s helped … Since when do you two know each other?”  
“We …”, Graves begins, hesitates. How is he supposed to explain everything that happened between the day he had discovered the wampus on his arm and now? “We met at the Spring Party”, he says. It is not even a real lie. Of course their first dinner had been enjoyable, but sitting on that rooftop, he had felt closer to Newton, had begun to understand him, to know him.  
“Ah”, Burns only says. Maybe, one day, Graves will tell him more. But not now, now they have to find Mary, and Newton, and the best owl.  
  
Princess is a spotted owl who is so tiny that she fits into Mary’s hands. It comes in handy—a normal cage is big for her, half an owl treat is already enough to make her feel full, and carrying her on the shoulder won’t be difficult for a child. Mary is so proud that she can hardly take her eyes of her pet. Eating her sandwich and chips is only a minor matter—it is far more interesting to ask whatever comes to her mind. Can Princess sleep in my room? Can I teach Princess to do tricks? How far can Princess fly?  
Of course Graves had known that Newton liked creatures, and he’d expected him and Mary to bond over owls—the patience Newton displayes is entirely unexpected, though. He takes his time with the answers, and tries his best to answer every single question.  
“Could Princess deliver my letters to you?”, Mary asks while closing her jacket because Burns had finally managed to convince her that it’s time to go home.  
“I live in England and travel a lot”, he says, “She might still be a bit too young to fly long distances. But you could always send a letter to Percival. I’m sure he’d ask his owl to find me.”  
Graves nods at that. “Of course I could do that. I’m sure Rupert wouldn’t mind.” That’s good enough for Mary. She hugs him tightly, and says that the owl is her favourite present, and that she will send him letters from Ilvermorny as soon as she gets back there. She also thanks Newton, promises to write to him to let him know if Princess gets along with the family owl, and then Burns takes his daughter’s finger in one hand, the owl cage in another, and they are gone.  
“I can’t believe she called her owl Princess and you encouraged her.” Graves takes a sip of his water, watches Newton open his mouth and close it again.  
“Well”, he says eventually, sounding more defensive than Percival had expected, “I just think it’s nice to support children. And she could have chosen a worse name.”  
Graves doesn’t know why his comment, that had been meant as a joke, upsets Newton. Of course her own owl’s name is Mary’s decision; of course he wants her to be as happy as possible. “You’re right. She could have picked a male and named him Percival. That would definitely have been worse. And terribly confusing.” He grins and feels ridiculously proud of making Newton smile. He takes a deep breath, empties his drink. “So … I remember something about a second dinner?”  
  
The backstreet is so small that very few people find their way to the restaurant, which is exactly why Graves had chosen it. Talking about soulmarks will be difficult enough, he doesn't need to have a large audience for that. Their table is in a corner, the waiter lights the candle with a flick of his wand and lets the menus float to them. He disappears, Newton starts reading the offers of the day, and Graves looks at him. He's wearing a shirt and a bowtie, as always. Newton could certainly afford more expensive fabrics, could dress the way his brother does, but doesn't seem interested in that at all. Even at the spring party, he'd worn linen. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not it doesn't want to be, he’s probably fundamentally honest, and he is so, so endearing.  
Graves startles when Newton’s hand touches his fingers. “Would you like to share a bottle of water, Percival?”  
“Of course, yes.” He doesn’t care about what he eats or drinks, has far too many things on his mind. He orders soup while Scamander orders something vegetarian, just like last time. “Where were you before you came to New York to buy an owl with me?”, Graves asks, “Back home in England or on some exciting research trip?”  
“Actually, I was on an exciting research trip back home in England.” Newton grins. “I relocated bowtruckles from my case to a forest.”  
Graves blinks. That doesn’t sound very exciting to him, but what does he know? “What about the one you brought to the Spring Party?”, he asks.  
Newton shakes his head, laughing. “Pickett? No, he’s my friend, he lives in the case.”  
A friend, not a pet. The choice of words makes Graves smile.  
  
Newton tells him about a trip to Arizona, and about his latest job, hunting down some sort of water demon in one of Scotland’s many lakes. Just like last time, he seems to liven up when talking about creatures, and Graves likes both the stories and the excitement written over Scamander’s face. He asks as few questions as possible, is satisfied with the role of the listener.  
“I have no idea why they’d want me to give a lecture—there are a lot of people who’d do a better job”, Newton says, shaking his head. He finishes his food. “You’re so quiet today, are you alright?”  
It takes Percival a few seconds to understand that it was a question he is supposed to answer. “I … I’m okay, yes.” He tries a smile and hopes it’s enough. It isn’t.  
Instead of returning to his story, Newton blinks and tilts his head. “I’m sorry I talked so much when you’re obviously tired or have something else on your mind. You could have just told me, I wouldn’t have held it against you.”  
Percival sighs and casts a silencing charm around them. “I’m sorry.” He takes a sip of his water. “It’s just that … There is something I wanted to talk to you about.” He casts a silencing charm around them.  
“Nothing bad, I hope?”, Newton asks, and Graves feels hysterical laughter bubble up inside him. He bites his tongue until he can feel pain ground him again.  
“Grindelwald”, he gets out, can hear Newton suck air through his teeth. “Although he kept me prisoner, it happened, I still don’t know how exactly, but it happened, and he said-” Percival stops talking. He knows he’s rambling, knows he can't keep beating around the bush anymore. “I have a soulmark”, he says, voice only shaking slightly, “and Grindelwald implied you might have the counterpart.”

They look at each other. He doesn't know how to read Newton's face. He's not even sure where to look. His eyes are open wide, their brownish green shimmers in the flicker of the candle between them. And then, suddenly, Newton's smile is almost impossibly wide. “Thank you so much for bringing it up.” He doesn't sound angry at all, not like he would reject Percival like Grindelwald had said. “Would you show me your mark?”, he asks. Percival blinks and stays silent. “I just thought we should compare them”, Newton explains, still looking at him expectantly. And before Percival can tell him that this is not at all how he was supposed to react, Scamander opens the cufflinks on his left sleeve, rolls it up and lets his arm fall on the table. Percival stares at the soulmark in front of him and knows he can stop searching for his soulmate because he's right in front of him.  
It's a wampus paw, large and dark and beautiful. He wonders what it might feel like to lay his fingers onto it, wonders if Newton would flinch at his touch. He wants to nod or say yes, but Newton is quicker.  
“Grindelwald talked to me, too”, he says, and Percival can hear his heartbeat in his ears, can feel his chest tighten. He keeps his eyes on the wampus paw and tries to remember how to breathe. He can only imagine what Grindelwald might have said, and the thoughts alone are enough to make him nauseous. The arm disappears from his field of vision, and Graves look at Newton who is moving his lips without saying anything. He watches him put on his coat, pull out a few dollar bills and leave the table. That’s it, then. Grindelwald had predicted it, had said his soulmate—but before he can finish his thought, Percival feels the familiar pull of apparition and everything turns black.  
  
It’s warm, warmer than in the restaurant, and it smells of herbs. Graves blinks a few times, until the blackness has turned into blurry shapes, and the shapes have turned into a room. There is a bed, there’s a suitcase with a thick cord tied around it, there is a sofa underneath him. And there is Newton, smiling, two cups of tea in his hands.  
“You’re back”, he says and sounds genuinely happy. “Hello.” Graves can’t come up with an appropriate reply, but it seems like he doesn’t have to. “We’re in my hotel room and I made you some tea, herbal. I’ll … I’ll put it on the table, okay?” Newton puts one cup on a coaster, keeps the other one for himself. He sits down on the carpet, legs crossed. His sleeve is still pushed up, but the soulmark is no longer visible.  
Percival realises he can move, manages to wrap his hands around the teacup. The warmth seeps through his fingers and spreads inside him. He tries to take a sip, burns his tongue and breathes out. “Thank you”, he says, and Newton only smiles in reply.  
It’s quiet until Percival clears his throat. “He told me he’d kill you. And then he said you wouldn’t want me anyway, that he’d told you about me and you’d left the country.”  
“Oh”, Newton mumbles, takes his time drinking tea. “Well, he only told me my … my soulmate was one of his victims. Could have been anyone. I never would have guessed … He also said I wouldn’t want you, and called me naïve when I disagreed. And I still disagree, so I’d say we can ignore Grindelwald’s advice altogether.”  
Maybe Newton really is naïve. He’s seven years younger than Graves, and who knows what kind of upbringing he had in regards to soulmate. Maybe he thinks that everything will work out, magically, just because they share marks.  
“It's not that easy”, Percival says. “I'm not exactly … He said I would never be able to go back to my normal life, and he was right. I kept my job, yes, and I'm no longer in hospital, but you've seen me just now.”  
“And it seems like I have found a good solution", Scamander interjects. "It's okay that you're struggling with what happened to you. Tea always helps.”  
“It’s not about tea!” Percival puts the half-empty cup down and sighs. He doesn't want to talk about his soulmark like this, he doesn't want to talk about Grindelwald at all. He buries his head in his hands, and feels very, very tired.  
  
When Graves decides to look up again, Newton seems as calm as ever, and he's still smiling, of course he is. "You're right, it's not about tea. But it's not about you either. I'm just as much a part of this as you, and just as … I never thought I’d have a soulmate in the first place, and then I suddenly find this mark on my arm while I’m in a foreign country and after I have met more people than I would have liked to. So okay, you are panicking, but I also spent a rather large amount of time worrying if I’d find my … If I’d find you, and if you’d want me.”  
Now the smile is gone, has been replaced by insecurity, something Graves only knows too well since Grindelwald. Newton doesn't look at him anymore, keeps his eyes fixed on the teacup in his hands. "Why would I not want you?", Graves asks. "I'm your soulmate, if anyone should want you, it's me."  
Newton laughs about that, but it sounds more bitter than amused. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, Percival, but the bigger part of my life revolves around creatures. I don't have many friends, and I've never—I spend so much time in my suitcase that even my family gets annoyed. I'm not very comfortable around people. With a few exceptions."  
He's one of those exceptions, Percival doesn't even have to ask. And although he's known it since the Spring Party, or even earlier, it still makes him feel warm and proud about having a soulmate. "Of course you'd spend a lot of time in your suitcase—it's not like your creatures can feed themselves, is it? You have a job you love, that's fantastic. You should see how much time I can spend in my office when I'm trying to crack a case. Ever since I've finished my auror training, there hasn't been one letter from my mother in which she hasn't complained about my workload." He rolls his eyes, and that makes Newton smile again.  
"I do travel a lot", he says in a tone that makes Percival wonder how many people have already complained about that before.  
He shrugs. Because if one thing is irrelevant, then it's Newton's travelling. There is floopowder, there is apparition, there are portkeys. "I can't wait to hear your stories. And I think it's great that I'm mostly here because that means you will always know where to find me."  
Newton empties his cup. "I will", he echoes, and they look at each other until Newton blinks and averts his eyes. "More tea?", he asks, and Graves nods. More tea, and more of his soulmate sitting across from him, that's exactly what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter eggs:
> 
> \- the water demon in a Scottish lake is, of course, Nessie, who probably already lived in Loch Ness in 1928.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely people!
> 
> Thank you all so much for all your kudos, comments, klicks. You are phenomenal!
> 
> Here is the latest chapter, I hope you like it as much as I do.  
> I am almost sure that the story will have 25 chapters. I think that's a good number, and I'll be able to squeeze everything into those last five chapters. There will—no surprise because I've mentioned it before—be a second part (I've already created the series for that).
> 
> I hope to be able to upload on March 11.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**20**

 

It is pouring in every corner of the case. Most creatures have disappeared into their burrows and nests, even Pickett is standing on his tree, hiding under a large leaf. The small stream near the mooncalf field turns into a river, and Newt lowers his wand before he walks over to the shed to get the wheelbarrow. It will take a while until the sky is back to today’s light blue colour, but he can’t wait for nice weather because the stomachs won’t either.

Newt takes one last look at his hotel room, at the bed he has hardly slept in and the sofa where he’d spent half a night drinking tea with Percival. He’s cleaned up the bits of soil and earth that he’d brought with himself from the case, has even made the bed although he knows that the maids will strip and change it. He tightens his scarf, takes his suitcase and closes the door.  
He has decided to walk to MACUSA. It takes him longer than expected – it’s not easy to navigate through the crowded streets. But he wants to get to know the city better. It’s Percival’s city, after all, has been for years. Maybe it will also become his own now, at least a little bit. Someone’s arm brushes against the suitcase, but before Newt can apologise, the other person has disappeared in the sea of people. The cord is still in place, secured by a knot sealed with a charm. He pushes his free hand deep into his pocket until he can feel the parchment between his fingers. Rupert’s claws had knocked against the hotel room’s window last night, the lines  _If you want to know where to find me outside of my working hours, we could meet at the office tomorrow, 8.15pm? I have a guest room, if you want to stay longer. See you then, I hope, P._ in his beak. Newt had read the letter a few times, had tried to figure out if Percival merely offered his guest room for a night or two, or if it was a permanent invitation. He still doesn’t have an answer to that.

The two goblins in front of the lift seem to be deep in conversation. They speak Gobbledegook, and although Newt has met quite a few goblins on his travels and had even managed to pick up bits and pieces of their language, he does not understand a single word. He certainly doesn’t know the proper grammar to ask if he could please be brought to the sixth floor. Before he can decide if it would be terribly rude to interrupt their conversation, someone behind him says “Are you getting payed for standing around? Fourth floor.” The man squeezes past Newt, opens the gate in front of the lift and steps inside. One of the goblins straightens their back, murmurs something before looking up at Newt. “There is space for you in here, too, Sir.”  
Newt holds his suitcase in front of himself and is careful not to bump into the other wizard. “Thank you. Sixth floor for me, please.” The goblin gives a quick nod, hops into the elevator and pushes the lever.  
When the other wizard leaves on the third floor, Newt remembers the American way of counting and sighs. “I actually want to go to the seventh floor”, he says. “Sorry.” The goblin only makes an affirmative noise and closes the gate again.  
  
They both open their mouths and close them again. Tina takes a few steps back, and Newt leaves the lift. For a second, he thinks about walking past her, then he feels bad for that thought. “Hello, Tina”, he says, tries a hesitant smile.  
He hadn’t expected to meet her, not this late in the evening. The day he’d left for Arizona had been the last time they’d been in touch. She had been annoyed about him spending so much time in his case, and although they had said goodbye to each other with a hug, she hadn’t sent a single letter. Then he’d come back here because of an owl, because of his soulmate, and he hadn’t even thought of letting Tina know about him being in New York.  
“Hi Newt”, she says, voice polite and neutral. “How was Arizona?”  
He nods. “Good, yeah. How have you been?”  
“I’m …”, she seems to hesitate. “Listen, Newt, I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch, I had a lot on my mind. Why don’t you come to dinner? Queenie won’t mind a surprise visit, and we can talk.”  
Newt hesitates. It’s a nice idea, but he can’t just go meet a Legilimens before he’s talked to Percival, and he doesn’t want to disappear on their first evening together. “That’s a great idea, but I actually have a … an appointment with Director Graves”, he says, stumbling over the word.  
Tina looks surprised. “But we have the same shifts this week”, she says. While Newt is still thinking about a plausible reply, her eyes brighten up. “Oh, is this about the smuggling case we had a while ago? He had mentioned that our Beast Department was not very cooperative, and I thought of suggesting to talk to you, but then I forgot about it.”  
Newt can’t suppress a grin. If she knew that she just delivered the perfect cover … “Your Beast Department is as old-fashioned as your NoMaj laws. What happened to those, by the way?”  
She shrugs. “Don’t know, to be honest. I’m only an auror, I know as much as you about the things they discuss on the top floor. You could ask the Director, if you have the guts.” Tina laughs about her joke. “Anyway, you could also come by tomorrow afternoon, around five? I have the night shift, but if you don’t mind an early dinner …”  
“Not at all!”, Newt hurries to say when he gets a glance at her watch. “I better go, I guess. See you tomorrow, okay?” He gives her a quick hug, and she disappears into the lift.  
  
Percival looks up, twisting a quill in his hands. “Ready to go?”, he asks.  
“If you are”, Newt answers, looking around. If there's always this much paperwork at the end of a shift, he can understand complaints about Percival's workload. He watches his soulmate clear the desk and lock the drawers with a practiced, almost careless, arm movement. It makes him wonder how much magic Percival actually possesses. Grindelwald had always clung to his wand, had held it in an unusually tight grip, even for the weaker attacking skills he had used in the beginning to test the strength of his opponents. Maybe that had been a trick to hide his abilities, Newt doesn’t know enough about wandless magic to know in how far a wand could hinder or help. He’d have to look it up somewhere, but doubts that he has the books.  
Percival’s hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his thoughts. “It’s a bit far to walk”, he says. “Let’s apparate part of the way.” And before Newt can reply, they are already gone.  
Central Park lies before them, the darkness only interrupted by the scattered flickering street lights. A NoMaj policeman walks past them, his dog looking up at Newt before being dragged away by the leash. Percival lets his hand slide down until their fingers touch. “It’s just across the park, and it’s a much nicer walk earlier in the day”, he says.  
Newt shrugs. It’s not like he had any plans apart from reading and eating. “Do you always have to work that late?“  
“Depends on the rota. I have more day shifts than my team, simply because I have to attend more meetings, but I make sure to work late shifts or night shifts as well. Left here, and Alohomora.” One of the park’s heavy metal gates unlocks, and Percival pushes it open. While it closes again, hinges squeaking, Newt looks at the buildings across the road. With meticulously cut boxwood separating the entries and the polished glass doors, they remind him of the hotel he’d stayed in for MACUSA’s party. It's obviously one of the better parts of the city, one where people have money and like to let others know about it.

 Percival lives on the top floor, and he's locked his flat’s front door with spells that could secure one of Gringott’s less important vaults. The final password is _fantastic beasts_. “I change it twice a month and thought that might be a good one for you”, Percival says and sounds so proud of his idea that it makes Newt laugh.  
“It is”, he assures, and stretches his neck when Percival pushes the door open. The hallway looks … plain. White walls, a shoe cabinet, a coat rack. It could be any flat, or even an office. Newt thinks of his own flat in London with its drawings and pictures in every room, and he's grateful for his case, an escape for when things get too ... white around here. He hangs his coat next to Percival's darker and most definitely more expensive one.  
“Do you mind me changing before I give you a tour?”, Percival asks. “I usually try to get out of my office clothes as quickly as possible.” He pushes a door open. “That's the guest room, make yourself at home, okay? A bathroom is next door.” Newt nods. “Thanks”, he says, and Percival disappears, loosening his tie. Newt puts his suitcase down and breathes out. They are alone now, Percival and he. He knows that they will have to get used to each other, he just doesn't know how. People at school had tolerated rather than befriended him, the time with Leta had ended in blood, tears and temporary expulsion, and he'd only become Dafydd’s friend because they had been assigned their first dragon together. He'd bonded with Tina because of Grindelwald, and Jacob had become his friend because he had been impossible to get rid of and Newt had felt sorry for him. None of those experiences is of help here, though. This is not a friendship but a relationship, and with Percival, who apparently doesn't have a broom closet and thinks white a nice colour for walls. Newt doubts that a shared hatred for Grindelwald is enough for them. It's only a matter of time until Percival realises that what everyone else already knows: humans are creatures Newt just can't handle.

He breathes and breathes and looks around, trying to distract himself. The guest room is spacious. There's a large bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a chair. A map of the US covers the wall above the desk, and there are photographs above the bed, something dark moving in them. Stepping closer, he sees that it's always the same motif: a large brown dog. On one picture, he is bathing in the snow until he looks like he's been powdered, on another one he's happily strutting through an autumnal forest, on the last one he's sleeping in the sunshine.  
“That’s Rufus. My father’s dog.” Percival is standing in the doorway. He hasn't only changed from his office suit into something more comfortable, he has changed from public to private persona. The thick woolen socks muffle his steps, and then he's right next to Newt. “Whenever I'm at my parents, I take him for a long walk, just the two of us. Then it feels like he's my dog.”  
Newt smiles. He knows that feeling. None of the hippogriffs at home were really his, but it had been easy to forget, even for his mum.  
They watch Rufus press his snout into the camera and run off again, tail waggling. Percival touches Newt's arm. “Let me show you the rest of the flat and put an emphasis on the kitchen. I bought enough vegetables to feed a whole auror team.” He laughs.

 Percival's study reminds Newt of his own down in the case. It clearly is organised chaos. Shelves full of books, a map of New York City that has circles in several colours on it, and notes on the walls. And just like in Newt's case, there are photographs of people. After the summer party, he'd put the one of Leta into the bin, had rearranged the ones of his family, of Dafydd and him, the one that Queenie had taken when he'd first been to New York. Maybe he'll soon have one of Percival and himself.  
The door to the bedroom stays closed. Percival doesn't open the one next to it either, only says it's a spare room he never uses. Newt is almost sure the photographs above the couch in the living room show Vermont's forests, and there is a door from the kitchen to a roof terrace. The stew is already boiling on the hob. Newt turns one of the chairs, sits down and watches Percival add pepper and some herbs.  
He stirs one more time, turns off the flame. “I have water, juice … There might even be some wine in the pantry.”  
“Water”, Newt decides because he remembers that Percival doesn't drink. And because he's nervous enough already. Alcohol might make him say things or do things, and … He catches the cutlery and plates that are floating towards him. Percival puts bread and butter next the the pan.  
The stew tastes good. He tells Percival, and receives a smile. They eat in silence, and Newt doesn’t feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t know what to talk about either.  
“It feels strange, doesn’t it?”, Percival asks. “To have a soulmate so suddenly.”  
“Yeah”, Newt mumbles. To even have a soulmark is strange enough, he thinks. “It’s never like this in the stories, or in other people’s lives.”  
Percival takes a sip of water. “You mean all those people in their mid-twenties who meet at work, or at boring dinner parties? I don’t know about England, but here in the US, we even have special events to make young pureblood people socialise so they can find their soulmates as early as possible.”  
Newt grimaces, suddenly glad that all his mother does is ask annoying questions. “Sounds like my personal nightmare”, he says, shakes his head when Percival offers more stew. “I’d hoped to find my soulmate at Hogwarts, like my parents or my grandparents. But I only found Leta.” He focuses on his fingers, collects breadcrumbs on the table.  
“The woman you met at the party.” It’s not a question.  
“Hmhm”, Newt makes, and as always when he thinks about her, he feels anger rise up inside himself. Percival would accept if he'd keep quiet now. He still wants to try, though. He clears his throat. “She … I thought she was my friend. She was a good actress, I guess. Made it seem like she was an outsider, like me, and interested in creatures, so I'd trust her. I had a jarvey. Well, I didn't own him, that would have been illegal, but I gave him a name and he came to me when I called, and sometimes he even let me touch his fur.” He stops talking. It had been one of the nicest jarveys Newt had ever met. He'd only used half as many swear words as other creatures of his kind, and one time he'd even offered to share a dead gnome with Newt, and jarveys only ever shared their food with members of their business. He examines his fingers. There is dirt under the nails because he'd dug out one of Harold's hidden nests. The cut from a piece of paper has healed nicely. Newt shakes his head, tries to concentrate on sitting here, and on finishing his story. “I didn't know she experimented with dark magic, I genuinely didn't. Until she chose my jarvey as a living object to test her knowledge on. She hurt him badly, and because he didn't know where the pain came from, he attacked the nearest student. The boy … He had to spend several weeks in hospital. Leta told everyone that my jarvey had suddenly gone wild, and that he had only been used to people because of me, which of course meant that everything had been my fault in the first place. I told them that she was wrong, but I couldn't prove anything. So I got sent home for the rest of the school year, and I was only allowed back because my transfiguration teacher and the head of my house were convinced of my innocence.” Newt tries to blink the memory of the victim's face away. Even the healers at St Mungo's hadn't been able to make the deep scars go away. Like so many, the Gryffindor boy had avoided him for the rest of their time at Hogwarts.  
“Newton”, Percival says, his hand touching Newt's arm. He looks worried, and his eyes are full of pity.  
Those who hadn't outright hated him had all looked at him like that, from the day he had returned to the Great Hall until the day he'd stepped out of the Hogwarts Express for the last time. It had taken the years at war, in Wales, and at the Ministry, years with people who hadn't been in his year at Hogwarts, to get away from it all. “Just don't say you're sorry”, Newt mumbles. “Please don't.”  
Percival’s thumb slides over the fabric of Newt’s sleeve. “Would you like some tea?”, he asks.  
Newt nods. He takes a deep breath. “Do you even have tea? Normal tea, I mean”, Newt asks, and when Percival only blinks confusedly, he manages to smile again. “I'll be right back”, he says.  
  
Theseus had given him the four boxes of Twinings before his first longer trip. _For emergencies_ , he’d joked, and this – being in a country without a proper tea culture – definitely counts as an emergency. Newt takes three of the boxes, and makes his way upstairs again. He makes sure to close the suitcase properly, and leaves the guest room. He can hear the dishes clatter in the sink, and Percival’s voice: “Thank you, but no, Rupert. I don’t want your mouse.”  
Newt clears his throat, comes back into the kitchen. Both Percival and his owl look at him. “He only wants to tell you that he loves you”, he says. “You clearly don’t know how to catch mice, so he does it for you.”  
“How nice”, Percival sighs, and lets the cadaver float into the bin before he points at Newt’s boxes of tea. “Is this you settling in?”  
“Is this you implying that you'd be okay with me settling in?”, Newt asks back, proud of his counter question. It takes him a few seconds to open one of the tea packages, and he's glad he has something to focus on.  
Percival laughs openly, smiles at him. He opens a cupboard, takes out two cups and a tea tin. The tea bag smells of thyme and lavender, herbs Newt also dries in his shed in the suitcase. He doesn't ask, but it's probably something to help relax and sleep. Newt takes the milk out of the fridge. “Well”, Percival finally says, takes the kettle from the hob. “I certainly wouldn't mind you staying.” He lets his hand brush against Newt’s, smiles. Newt almost puts too much milk into his cup.

While Percival lights a fire, Newt stands in front of the bookshelf, a Lumos on his wand. He’s never heard of _The first Wizarding War_ or _Here before Europe: Native American Tribes and their Magic,_  while _Beyond Advanced Transfiguration_ and _100 Potions and their Antidotes_ are part of his little suitcase library. His own book stands next to what seems to be an American auror magazine. The book ribbon is somewhere between the pages.  
“Newton?”, Percival asks from somewhere behind him, and he sounds nervous enough to make Newt turn around. He sits on the couch, and he has taken his cardigan off. The white t-shirt seems to glow in the light of the Lumos bubble floating in front of him. “You still haven’t seen my soulmark.” He laughs when Newt moves so quickly that he almost stumbles over his own feet.  
It might as well be a drawing, something out of Newt’s sketchbook. The wampus fur on Percival’s skin has been as carefully shadowed as the pads of the paw. The skin is soft and warm under Newt’s fingers. He opens the cufflinks on his own shirt, pushes the sleeve to his elbow and turns his arm until he can see both soulmarks. There is no doubt that they belong together, the animal and the paw.  
Percival takes a sip of his tea. “I was surprised about the mark, but not that much about the motive. Wampus was my house at Ilvermorny”, he explains. “And as a magizoologist, you could probably have any creature as a mark.”  
Newt laughs, and takes his cup from the table. “Even among creatures, there are a few that I wouldn’t want as a mark. Spiders, for instance, or the Hufflepuff symbol. A wampus is definitely more impressive than a badger. What are Wampus pupils usually like?” He fumbles for his wand to heat up his lukewarm tea.  
“Like me, I guess”, Percival says, shrugs. “I've always felt very much at home in my house, and when I told my parents about my plans to become an auror, they basically told me they'd expected it.”  
  
Percival lets go of his arm for a few seconds, adjusts a cushion and empties his tea. Newt can feel a hand on his shoulder, and he lets himself sink into the touch. “When I told my parents that I wanted to become a magizoologist, my dad only said 'Oh Newt’, and my mum was angry with him because it would have been a shame to waste my talent.” He laughs at the memory. “So I collected every single degree you can possibly get in magizoology, and I soon started working for the Ministry. That appeased my dad, and he always had his successful auror son to rely on, that also gave me more freedom.”  
“You don’t get along with your brother?” Percival sounds genuinely interested, and Newt suddenly realises that Theseus and his soulmate have worked together for years. Percival and he could have met without that whole Grindelwald disaster, if only Newt hadn’t hid in his office as often. He wonders what Percival might have looked like two or five years ago, and then he remembers that there is a question hanging in the air.  
“Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts”, he mumbles. “I’d say we do get along, we’re just not in touch very often. We were in different houses at Hogwarts, always had different hobbies, and with me travelling so much, we hardly see each other anymore. Sometimes I think I should write more, but then I remember that he's far too busy to answer letters anyway.”  
That makes Percival chuckle. “Oh, I know that problem. Lynette, my little sister, regularly gets cross with me for not writing back quickly enough, or for not visiting enough, or for having to cancel meetings. Sometimes I think, she really just enjoys complaining.” He rolls his eyes, but clearly in a fond way.  
“Is that your whole family?”, Newt asks. “Your parents and a sister?”  
“Not quite. I have a brother-in-law and a nephew. And you forgot Rufus”, Percival says earnestly. “He doesn’t like to be left out of anything that has to do with family. But I guess if we’re counting animals, you win anyway because my father might have one dog, but you probably have a whole entourage of creatures in your case.”  
Newt laughs. He’s heard a lot, but nobody has ever called his creatures his _entourage._ It’s not a bad word, actually. If they could, Pickett, Harold and Dougal would cling to him all day long, and if he’d stop to keep a professional distance to the young occamies, he’d probably be able to carry them wrapped around his arms. That thoughts lets a new wave of laughter roll through him, and it takes him a few seconds to realise he’s pressed against Percival’s side, and the arm that is wrapped around his shoulder allows him to sit up again, but doesn’t let him move away. Not that he’d want to.  
Percival’s voice is so close to his ear. “What was so funny?” Newt thinks that it would be easy to kiss him now, he’d only have to turn his head and stretch a bit. He’s never kissed a man, and the few times he’s kissed a girl had been at Hogwarts and more of an experiment than anything serious. Newt doesn’t know where the thought came from. They hardly know each other. He swallows.  
“ _Entourage_ ”, he repeats, as if that’s explanation enough. “I’m probably just tired. Sorry.” Percival’s hand slowly disappears from his shoulder.  
“You’re right”, he agrees, yawns. “It’s getting late.” He gets up, brings their empty cups into the kitchen, and Newt comes after him, his legs tingling. He really is tired. Percival cleans the cups, puts his tea tin from the counter into the cupboard and even manages to squeeze Newt’s three tea boxes inside. Then he’s standing in front of Newt, and their soulmarks are almost touching. “I have the late shift tomorrow”, Percival says. “See you at breakfast.” They look at each other, and Newt just wants to stumble into a hug. Instead, he watches Percival lift a hand. He pushes a curl behind Newt’s ear. “Night.”  
“Night”, Newt echoes, and when he closes the door to the guest room, his bedroom, he realises that they haven’t talked about Grindelwald once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really easter eggs, but still worth mentioning:
> 
> \- Theseus is unarguably the kind of person who thinks Twinings has the best tea because they hold a royal warrant. Newt unarguably loves tea, but he'd probably be just as happy with something cheaper.
> 
> \- Jarveys seem to be related to ferrets, and since a group of ferrets is called a business, I decided to use that for jarveys as well.
> 
> \- Rufus is probably a very good dog, and he's a Chesapeake Bay Retriever (I've spent an entire morning looking up dog breeds just so I could have a better picture of him in my mind, and I don't want it to have been for nothing, so now I'm sharing my unneccessary knowledge).


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers :)
> 
> First of all, we'd like to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter. We appreciate every single comment, and we're still amazed that there are people out there who enjoy this fic as much as we do, and who take the time to write a few lines of encouragement. 
> 
> Since Shortbread (Hufflepuff, real author of this story) is in London right now, enjoying the British Museum and buying tons of books because she's a huge nerd, Shortbread No2 (Slytherin and second in command), has to update today. You might have wondered: what is the slythrin even doing? How is she contributing? Well, my moment has come ;) I hope the editing is not too off, and hopefully you'll enjoy the new chapter :) 
> 
> I'm particularly excited for this one because Pickett makes another appearance! Also, Newt and Graves will talk a bit more, because we need less unncessary pining, and more affection (which is not easy to achieve with these two.)
> 
> We hope you enjoy and we're excited to know what you think :) The next chapter will be posted in two weeks, March 25th.
> 
> Love,
> 
> Shortbread No2

**21**

 

Years of training, and he still feels the rush of adrenaline when the team is about to go out to the streets. It's far too early in the morning, but they are all wide awake. “Let’s remember that they might expect us, and that they might be armed. They are to be brought here for the usual procedure, and I want the flat turned upside down”, he says. “O’Toole and Rosenberg, you two together; Goldstein with me. Questions?” Nothing. “Let’s go”, Graves says, pulls his scarf a bit tighter. They apparate one after the other.

The door is so easy to unlock that it’s hard to believe they are searching for people who, according the the anonymous source, attempted to rob the Wizarding Bank of America. They all look at each other, and Rosenberg rolls his eyes before going in, a faint Lumos glowing on his wand.  
It’s cold in the flat, and the lack of oxygen makes Graves want to walk right out again. There is a mattress lying on the floor, two people sleeping under dirty duvets. Maybe the person who had notified MACUSA has been wrong, and those two are innocent. Their obvious poverty could be a motive, though. The Lumos is hovering over their heads now, and they blink. One of them, a man with short, black hair, sits up. The duvet slides from his shoulders and he shivers in his undergarment.

“Good morning”, Graves says. “We’d like you to accompany us to the Auror Department until we've searched this flat.”  
The man stares at him, and they can all pinpoint the moment the penny drops. He stretches his hand, but Rosenberg is quicker. “Accio!” He catches the two wands, puts them in the pocket of her coat. At that, the man suddenly gets up and bolts for the door. He pushes Goldstein out of the way, and she stumbles against one of the walls.  
“Petrificus Totalus!”, O’Toole shouts, and the man stiffens, falls to the floor. “Are you hurt, Goldstein?”, he asks.  
She shakes her head, but she is still leaning against the wall. “Not badly. Just my ankle. We can worry about that later.” She presses her lips together, and Graves offers her his arm.  
They have done enough here, and injuries are always priority. Goldstein is rather pale, and her fingers dig into the fabric of Graves's coat. “If you, O’Toole, can apparate with that package”, he nods at their male suspect, “Rosenberg could take care of our second suspect, and I could bring Goldstein to the hospital floor. Tell Jackson to interrogate, I'll write our report.”  
“You can't just …”, the other suspect,a woman who is still sitting on the mattress, tries to protest. “You can't just search our flat, you need a … a document.”  
“A search warrant”, Graves supplies. “Don't worry about that, I signed it just this morning."  
“Would you like to put something on, Miss?”, Rosenberg suggests as patient as ever, and they all watch her crawl to a pile of clothes on the floor. She pulls out a jumper, a skirt, a pair of tights that seems to be more holes than fabric. Turning away from them, she undresses, and they can see her spine, her ribs, her shoulder blades. Her shoes are worn off, the thin cardigan she finds in a corner does nothing against the cold, and her scarf isn't even worth mentioning. It seems to take ages until she is ready to leave. The woman turns around again. “Okay.” She wipes her runny nose on her sleeve, but Rosenberg keeps a straight face.  
He gives her an encouraging nod. “I'll perform a Locomotor Mortis now, Miss, for safety reasons, and then we will apparate.” He points his wand, grabs her arm, and they are gone.

O’Toole holds the paralysed man in a tight grip. “See you, Director, hope it's not too bad, Goldstein”, he says before he apparates.  
The first morning light, grey and hesitant, falls through the holes in the rags that hang in front of the window. Graves is glad that his very early breakfast has already made its way through his stomach. “Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you outside, Goldstein?”  
Goldstein nods, breathes through her mouth. “Walk, please”, she mumbles. Graves ducks down, lets her put an arm around his neck. Together, they take a first careful step, and he can see her curling her hand into a fist. They make it out the door, and Goldstein leans against the wall, her face as white as a sheet. Graves seals the door with their standard spells, and takes out his wand to put his signature on top of it. He takes Goldstein in a tight grip and disapparates with her.

Goldstein breathes through gritted teeth when they arrive in the apparition room on the ground floor, and her hands are twisted in the fabric of his coat.  
“Can you wrap your arms around my neck?”, Graves asks. She swallows, then shakes her head, just like he had expected.  
“I can walk”, she insists while blinking tears away.  
Graves sighs. He is tired, too tired to let her float beside him, and as much as he appreciates determination as a character trait in his aurors, now is really not the time for it. He takes his hand, draws a chair into the air. “Now, Goldstein”, he says, lowering her down onto the chair, “I’ll be right back. Don’t faint, okay?” She gives him a short nod, keeps her eyes closed.

The house elf promises to send someone from the hospital floor, and to organise a wheelchair. Graves gets another elf to bring him a glass of water and a chocolate bar. Armed with that, he goes back to his colleague. “Just a little while longer until we’ll bring you to a bed”, he promises, offering her the water. She downs it. “Chocolate?”, Graves asks, already opening the packaging. He hands her the food, conjures a little stool for her leg and a chair for himself. She manages to lift the foot herself, and puts it down on the footrest.  
Goldstein bites off a small piece, and keeps the bar in her hand. “Thank you”, she mumbles. He only nods, takes off her shoe and the black sock. The ankle is swollen, and she draws a breath when his cold fingers touch the skin. She can still move the foot, that's a good sign. It takes him a few minutes of looking around the room until he has found the emergency kit with the bottle of cooling spray in it. Goldstein flinches when he applies it, but then she relaxes, takes another bite off the chocolate bar. “Much better already”, she says. “Thank you.” And before he can tell her that there's nothing to thank him for, she's changed the topic: “Newt told us that you're his soulmate.” Underneath the fatigue and exhaustion, there is amusement.  
Graves nods. He knows that, and he knows that Goldstein laughed at Newton, not quite sure if he was telling the truth. Her sister had been happy, not doubting anything. But she was a legilimens, of course. “He said he would”, Graves finally reacts. Goldstein, or Tina, as. Newton had argued, as his best friend here in America, had a right to know of such a profound change in his life, and it would be useless to try keep it secret around her sister anyway.  
“I didn’t believe him at first. I thought … He’s so busy with his creatures and all”, she says, and Graves knows what she means.  
Creatures are priorities, he has already learned that much in the time he has shared a flat with Newt. At first glance, a soulmate hardly seems to fit into his life. “Well”, Graves replies, “I’m busy with MACUSA and all.” Goldstein laughs, and they both look up when two nurses come into the room.

“Director?”, Jackson asks, one foot already in the office. He's waving a document. “Thank you for the report. We've finished the interrogation. The woman confessed, and then it only took a few minutes until the man crumbled. And we've checked their way – several Alohomoras the morning of the attempted break-in. I need you to sign so we can notify the judges.”  
Graves blinks a few times, takes his quill. “Thank you. Did you receive anything from the hospital floor yet?” His signature looks a bit shaky. He needs to go home and sleep.  
“Torn ligament. Fisher said he’ll switch shifts with Goldstein so she has more time to recover.”  
Graves nods. Nothing broken, that's good news. With the help of a few potions, she should be back in a few days. “Excellent”, he says, locks the door to his office. “Have a quiet shift.” A nod at Jackson, and one at Burns, who is walking past them with his first office coffee if the day. Graves walks his usual round, says goodbye to the aurors of the morning shift, and decides to apparate. He could use the cold wind to wake up, but he has left the office much later than he’d planned. The trick is not to think too much about it. Of course he feels like he could fall asleep the minute he opens the door to his flat, but he really doesn’t want to. There is Newton now, who has probably just begun his day, and time spent with him is far more valuable than time spent sleeping. Percival adjusts his sleeves before he leaves Central Park’s apparition spot.

“I’m home”, Percival calls while the door clicks shut. The hallway is warm enough to make his cold fingers tingle. He can hear the crackling of wood in the fireplace. It takes a few minutes to unbutton his coat, untie his laces. Newton’s boots, standing next to the guest room’s door, are dark with dried mud, and although his own shoes look clean in comparison, Percival wants to clean them. The memory of the flat he had been to during his shift makes him shudder, and he casts a quick Scourging Charm before hanging up his coat and scarf. Starting to open the buttons on his waistcoat, he walks into the kitchen. “Good morning!”, comes from the living room. Percival hangs his suit jacket over a chair, opens the fridge and pours himself a glass of apple juice. He yawns.

There are books on the table, most of them open, and drawings scattered on the floor; some show wings, some show beaks, and one appears to be a sketch of a skeleton. Newton is sitting on the rug, legs crossed. He is twisting a quill in his fingers, a smidge of ink on his hand. “Hello”, he says, sounding as awake as Percival feels tired, “did you have a good shift?”  
Percival holds back a yawn, nods. “It was too long”, he replies and carefully navigates to his sofa. He leans back into the cushions, sighs. The warmth of the fireplace lulls him into exhaustion.  
Unfolding his legs and putting his quill aside, Newton gets up and disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s bringing tea for both of them. Percival makes space for him, puts a few parchments on top of each other and sets his glass down. “I think I saw New York’s dirtiest flat today, Goldstein tore a ligament in her right foot, and although I spent two hours reading through paperwork, the pile on my desk is still as high as ever.” He sighs, and closes his eyes.  
“I’m so glad I’m not an auror.” Newton sounds amused, and the warmth of his fingers seeps through the fabric of the white office shirt. “Is Tina going to be okay?”  
“We have a good hospital department, and she has a few days off. I’m sure she’ll be discharged today, and then she has a few days to recover. How was your day?”  
Newton laughs, and Percival can almost feel the vibrations in his own upper body. It’s comforting, just what he needs after a shift like this one. “You mean my morning?”, Newton asks back. “Uneventful. I fed my creatures, and now Pickett and I are trying to come up with something for the conference I'm supposed to talk at.”  
Percival blinks, and sits up. “You have your bowtruckle here?” He hasn’t forgotten that Newton had called Pickett a friend, not a pet. They haven’t talked about it yet, but he’d always assumed he’d eventually get to meet his soulmate’s creatures. Something as small as a bowtruckle seems like a good start. “Can I meet him? Her?”

Newton stares at him for a second, then he puts his teacup down. “You … Of course you can meet him. I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce you earlier, I wasn’t sure if you’d be interested.” He glances at Percival, his eyes shining with excitement. “Give me a few seconds to find him.” Newton checks the breast pocket of his shirt, and the sleeves before he runs his hands through his hair. “Ha!”, he says, and when he lifts his hands again, the bowtruckle is dangling from one of his fingers. It reminds Percival of the photograph in the Time-Turner. Newton offers the palm of his hand, and the creature stands on it like a slightly bent dark green stick. Although Percival had known that bowtruckles can use their hands to use locks, he hadn’t expected the fingers to be this long, and the eyes are so tiny that they are difficult to spot. “Pickett, that’s Percival”, Newton says in earnest, lifting his hand until they are seeing eye to eye. “I’ve told you about him, remember?” The bowtruckle seems to eye him suspiciously, and turns away. He chirps something, but Percival can’t make out words in a language he’d understand; he can’t even guess a tone of voice. He wonders what exactly that means, I've told you about him. Does Newton talk to all his creatures about his life? It seems like something he might do. He is still looking at the bowtruckle. Percival can see that Newton genuinely listens, the way he'd also listened to Mary or even to Rupert. He is without doubt one of the most honest people Percival has ever met, one of the kindest too. There's still so much to learn about him, but the bits and pieces Newton has shown him so far are enough to make Percival smile.

Newton bites his lips, seems to ponder for a second. “Of course I know that, but … Well, it’s not very polite to sit in my hair without at least introducing yourself, is it?”, he asks. Whatever Pickett’s answer is, it makes Newton laugh and shake his head. The bowtruckle grabs a strand of hair, disappears somewhere between the curls. Newton looks up again. “I’m sorry he didn’t want to stay long. Pickett is a bit shy around people”, he apologises.  
“Like you”, Percival hears himself say, holds his breath for a second. He did not mean to blurt that out. Newton stares at him, and it’s difficult to say if he feels hurt or if he is confused. “I …” He pauses because he realises that telling Newton he didn’t actually want to say that might only make things worse.  
“Oh Merlin, you really are tired, aren’t you?”, Newton asks, grinning, and now it’s Percival’s turn to blink. “First you call my creatures an entourage, then you compare me to a bowtruckle … When’s your next late shift? Just so I know when to expect your unfiltered comments.”  
Percival sighs. “Wednesday in a fortnight”, he mumbles, suppresses a yawn. “Maybe you should just ignore me after a shift like last night’s.”  
Newton gives him an amused smile, touches his hand. “Get yourself to bed so I can work on my lecture, hm? I could wake you for coffee in the afternoon, if you want.” And when Percival doesn’t react, Newton takes his hand, pulls him from the sofa and leads him to the bedroom door. “Goodnight”, he says.

As he is trying to button his pyjama, the thought of taking his duvet and going back to the living room crosses his mind. But Newton said he has work to do, and the bed is much more comfortable than the sofa. Percival crawls under the covers, realises that he hasn’t brushed his teeth and casts a cleaning spell. He deepens his breath, finally allows his fatigue to take over.  
“Percival?”, a voice wakes him after what feels like five minutes. “It’s four in the afternoon, I’m taking a break from writing. Do you want to join me?”  
“Five minutes”, he mumbles back, face pressed into the pillow.  
Newton laughs. “I couldn’t understand you, so I’ll take that as a yes.” He leaves the door wide open. Percival rubs his eyes. Summoning a t-shirt and some trousers, he sits up. Of course he could stay in bed, but then he’d wake up far too early. He’d rather keep his rhythm, stay awake for a while now and then have breakfast at a reasonable hour tomorrow.

“The kettle’s just boiled”, Newt calls from the kitchen. “Tea for you?”  
“Only if it’s not yours”, Percival answers. Despite having witnessed his soulmate putting milk into black tea multiple times by now, he is still sceptical towards that concept. “Actually”, he changes his mind, “I'd rather have coffee.” He closes the bedroom door behind himself. In the living room, Newton is arranging biscuits on a plate.  
“I went to Jacob’s bakery while you were asleep, and he said these sell really well.”

While Percival sits down on the sofa, he tries his best to remember, but the name doesn’t mean anything to him. “Who’s Jacob?”, he asks.  
Newton, still holding a biscuit, waves his hand. “He’s a friend of mine. His bakery, Kowalski’s, is actually not too far from MACUSA. I lent him a bit of money so he could get his business running, and now I get free food whenever I’m around. I’d say that’s one of the best bargains I’ve ever made.”  
Percival laughs, grabs a biscuit and takes a bite. It had looked plain – and tastes anything but. Butter and sugar are melting in his mouth in what seems to be the perfect mixture, and suddenly, he remembers the kitchen at his parents’ house, the house elves that had always had a treat for him whenever he'd spent time looking into their pans and pots. He closes his eyes, until the crumbs on his tongue have gone all soft. “That”, he decides, “was incredibly good. You can wake me for that any time you want to.” He warms his hands on the tea, blinks the sleep out of his eyes. “So … The lecture you've been working on, what is that for?”  
“The British Hippogriff Association asked me to talk at their annual meeting. I've only ever listened before, and I'm not even an expert on hippogriffs, I know half as much as the amateur breeder, so it really is a big honour that they even considered asking me. There have been hippogriff sightings here in the US, did you know that? Opens a lot of possibilities for international research projects. If the American magizoologists could be a bit more enthusiastic about preserving species, that is. I tried to talk to Mr. Collins the other day, the director of your beast department, and it was a disappointment. Humans are worth more than creatures, we should profit from them on every way we can, and so on. He didn't even listen to me, said I should grow up and stop chasing after my, I quote, ‘irrational fantasies’.”

Percival rolls his eyes. He'll never understand how Collins managed to get the position of Director. “That's exactly the kind of thing I would have imagined him to say. I think what you need is a successful lecture, and then change will happen eventually. If there is enough interest in research, if there's a lot of money to be made, Collins might change his mind. Build international pressure until he can't ignore the problem anymore. Works in magical security, so why not in magizoology? ” He puts his tea away, takes another biscuit.  
“But I don't have a good lecture, Percival!”, Newton says, and what had been meant to calm him only seems to agitate him. “I've got little more than nothing. I've changed the topic two times already, and now I'm stuck on this comparison of hippogriffs and thunderbirds, but I don't even know if that's interesting enough?”  
“You just told me there are hippogriffs in America, Newton. If that's not interesting then I don't know what is. I'm sure people would like to know more about it. For research, as you said. Or for breeding purposes or whatever. Don't worry too much, it will be a good lecture, okay? I know it. And if you ever want to have an opinion from someone who knows nothing about magizoology whatsoever, I'd be happy to be your one-man audience.” He wants to give an encouraging smile.

Newton is staring at him, doesn't even avert his gaze when he puts his teacup down. “Percival”, he says, clears his throat. “Nobody apart from my family would voluntarily – Are you … Thank you” is what he finally gets out, and then suddenly, Percival finds himself in a tight hug. Newton has his hands wrapped around him, his breath is tingling against Percival's neck, and everything is warm. Newton smells of his tea, of herbs and of linen dried under the open sky. And although the collar of his linen shirt is not the softest, and the position they are in is not the most comfortable either, Percival doesn't dare move away. He puts his hands on Newton's back and keeps breathing. His fingers soak up every bit of body heat they can find. They stay like this for a few cycles of breath.  
“Sorry”, Newton mumbles without letting go. “Didn’t … Hm. Didn't really think.”  
Percival bites back a laugh. Of course Newton would apologise for being too forward, for physical contact and for spontaneous reactions. His first impulse is to joke about it, to try and bring Newton even further out of his shell. Then again, this moment is far too nice, and far to enjoyable. “Nothing to apologise for”, he assures. Newton breathes slower, is clearly getting comfortable, and Percival reacts by letting his fingers slide through the dark blond hair, curl after curl after curl.

“Doesn't it get boring?”, Newton asks, leaning back against the sofa and Percival's knee. “The topic, I mean.”  
Percival glances at his book on Wizarding History, then at the drawings that Newton has spread on the table. He didn't even know that beaks could be drawn from this many angles. “You're one to talk”, he teases. “As if you wouldn't catalogue every single feather on a hippogriff, if you could”, he say, and Newton laughs.  
“I … actually did that?” He sounds sheepish now, and he seems amused about Percival's confusion. “My mum breeds hippogriffs, you see, and I collected their feathers for a while.”  
“I turned the wall of my room into a timeline of important wizarding events. I even had a colour coding system. Green for MACUSA presidents, blue for new laws being introduced, red for progress in culture, yellow … I can't remember. Something else was yellow.” He laughs about the memories.  
“Why didn't you become a History of Magic teacher?” Newton sounds like making a living out of a hobby is only logical, and maybe it is for him. Percival only snorts at the idea of living at Ilvermorny.  
“I didn't want to spend my working life on top of a lonely mountain in the middle of nowhere. Besides, nobody likes the subject, it's almost an automatic reaction. History – no thanks."  
“Pupils don’t like it because it's boring”, Newton says.  
“Because it's taught the wrong way”, Percival insists. He'd needed to do find the right books in the library to understand that history is more than just dates and names of rulers, but at Ilvermorny, they never got that far. It's a shame. Maybe he should have become a professor to do justice to the subject.  
“Well, I always found it terribly boring”, Newton confesses freely. “But if you ever want to change my mind with things you've picked up in one of your book, please do try. You're not the only one who can be a one-man audience.” With that, and with a grin, Newton turns back to his notes, Percival turns a page in his book.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments, kudos and bookmarks, and an especially warm welcome to those of you are new to the party. It makes me so happy to see and read that you all enjoy reading our fic!
> 
> While the Slytherin shortbread, who was so kind to upload chapter 21, is hanging out at a convention (because I'm not the only 'huge nerd' on this account, ha!), I have spent the last three days writing, editing, re-writing, deleting and re-writing the new chapter. Although I have the whole plot, and I know what's supposed to happen in the chapters, it felt like I had no idea what was going on in the fic, so I hope it turned out okay and you like the result
> 
> Chapter 23 will come online on April 8th, so—in advance—happy easter and happy pesach to those of you who celebrate.
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**22**

 

“I'm not even doing anything”, Tina protests when her sister points towards their kitchen bench. “I’m just standing here waiting for my coffee.”  
“You're putting pressure on your foot. And I know you got up last night to take a painkiller.” Queenie only smiles when Tina sighs. “You go and stop our guest from dissecting his slice of bread, I bring you your coffee.”  
Newt blinks, takes a napkin to wipe the crumbs from his fingers. “Sorry”, he mumbles. “Thoughts.”  
“About your soulmate?”, Tina asks teasingly, and next to her, Queenie laughs. She grins at Newt, and he knows that she's been poking around in his head again. Now she knows that he worries far too much about the lecture in Devon, she probably also knows more about hippogriffs than before.  
Jacob has swallowed the salad he'd been chewing. “Soulmate, eh?”, he says. “Must be true love if that's how you talk about someone.”  
Newt wants to come up with a good reply, but the words _true love_ keep tumbling around in his mind, and he thinks of hippogriffs and then wonders if maybe thunderbird are monogamous creatures, too, and he remembers this morning's breakfast and how warm with happiness he had felt to see Percival in a t-shirt, soulmark openly on display. When cups filled with coffee are put on the table, he realises that Jacob is still waiting for an answer. “It’s not a term of endearment”, he eventually mumbles, and that doesn't sound like he had intended at all. Because of course it can be, depending on the situation and the tone of voice and the –.  
  
“What Newt means”, Tina interrupts the sheer endless train of thoughts, “is that, in the wizarding world, soulmates actually exist, and Newt has one. When these people meet, marks appear on their bodies, and that's how they know might make a good couple.”  
Jacob looks like he doesn't believe a word of it. “Soulmark”, he echoes. “You're not telling me some random … something appears on your body, are you? Where does it come from?”  
Newt shrugs. “Soulmarks are a form of magic”, he says. “Nobody knows where magic came from, it's just always been there. Not everybody gets a soulmark, just like not everyone possesses the same level of magic.”  
Jacob butters a piece of bread, brows furrowed. “But isn't that … That's rather …”  
“We do have free will, honey.”Queenie's wand directs four plates of strudel to the table. “A mark is not a binding contract, it's more like fate's suggestion.” Jacob still doesn't seem convinced, and Queenie laughs. “I don't think it's possible to build a relationship on the fact that you share soulmarks. A lot of people don't even notice their marks at first, and just find themselves liking a person. In those cases the mark is a nice confirmation. And people get to know each other in normal ways, spending hours in the coffee kitchen at work”, she glances at her sister, “or wherever.”  
Tina groans, shifts in her seat. “Could you stop that. It's really not funny anymore”, she mumbles, blushes. Queenie only grins, obviously enjoying the situation, and Newt glances at Tina. He didn't know … With Queenie teasing like this, the soulmark has probably been on Tina's skin for a while now. It must have happened while Newt was busy working in Europe.  
Jacob sits up. “So it's like love at first sight only you get a sign somewhere on your body?”, he asks. Newt nods because if you ignore that there is not always instant attraction and that some people take a long time until they figure out who their soulmate is, then yes, that is basically it. “I wonder”, Jacob says, “what my sign would be if I were a wizard.”  
Newt takes a slice of bread and picks a few slices of cheese and cold cut meat from the large platter in the middle of the table. “That’s easy”, he grins. “A cake.”  
“Or a baking tray”, Tina adds drily, making Jacob laugh and Newt feel glad that he doesn't need much more than pen and paper to be a magizoologist.

Discussing the pro and cons of different types of chocolate as ingredient, Queenie and Jacob have wandered off to the kitchen. Tina has a wet towel wrapped around her ankle, and Newt is on his third tea of the visit.  
“Have you ever been to New Zealand?”, she asks suddenly, sitting up.  
Newt takes a moment to think. “I’m not sure”, he says. “I was in the area once, but I think it was an independent island state. Why, do you want to go on a field trip to escape Queenie’s nosiness?” He grins at the thought of Tina out in the wild with him, and she seems to find the suggestion just as funny.  
“Thanks, but no thanks”, she declines the offer. “I’d probably be too impatient to sit around for an hour just to watch a bird or something. It’s just that -”  
“Not even one of those funny looking ones with incredibly long tail feathers?”, Newt asks back. “I read an introductory article of a muggle explorer a while ago, and I think there could be a lot of magic in all those colourful birds.”  
“Newt”, Tina says calmly, “I asked because my soulmate is from New Zealand.” She breathes out, looks like she’s glad that the sentence is out.  
Oh. That’s … something more serious. He takes a sip of his tea, not sure if he should ask questions. She doesn’t look like she’d mind talking about it, though. “Your coffee kitchen person? Do you want to tell me more? But if you don’t and Queenie is already too much to deal with …”  
Tina rolls her eyes. “She hasn’t even met him yet, and she’s already telling me about ideas for my wedding dress. I don’t think I’ve ever told her to stay out of my head as often.”  
“You can always come over to me, if she’s enough to deal with”, Newt offers, but that only makes his friend raise her eyebrows.  
“That’s very nice of you”, she says, “but I’m not sure if Graves would be happy about his subordinate hanging around in his private flat.”  
Newt blinks. He’s never really thought about that, and he can’t imagine it to be a problem. “Well, it’s also my flat now, at least at the moment, and why should I not invite my friends over?” He might still be sleeping in the guest room, but some of his books have wandered into the living room, and although he hasn’t talked to Percival yet, he’s already planned to come back to New York after the presentation in England. “Let’s not discuss that now.” He waves a hand. “Tell me about your soulmate instead. Are you only meeting for coffebecause he happens to have a mark, or did you use your own free will and decided to like him?”  
Tina laughs. “Can’t stand him at all, it’s only the marks.” She grins, breathes in and out. “He was here for a meeting a while ago and now he takes a portkey every Wednesday so we can have coffee together. That’s all. And a card after my accident.” She picks a few crumbs from the tablecloth, shuffles in her seat. Newt can see her break into a smile. When he asks if they have already seen each other’s marks, she blushes. “It’s here.” She gestures at her ribcage. “You can’t exactly look at it over coffee, but we talked enough, and”, she hesitates for a second, “we both made drawings. They match, and … yeah. Soulmates.” She takes her wand to warm up her coffee, and reaches for a fresh slice of bread. Newt catches her eye and grins at her.  
“So”, he says, “when will you introduce him to me, and do you think I could use his place in New Zealand as a sort of base for exploring?” Tina only groans in response.  
  
Newt puts a full stop after the last word on the page and watches the ink dry. The script for the lecture is finished now, at least the first draft. He'll use the next few days to go over it once more, and then he'll take the portkey on Thursday morning. Once the meeting of the British Hippogriff Association is over, he can start to prepare the lecture for his visit at Hogwarts. He will have to put a bit more effort into it. Children are the most critical audience, and the introductory lecture that Professor Dippet had asked for can't only cover hippogriffs. Newt knows the colleagues at the Ministry hope his talk might get someone interested in the profession. Besides, he doesn't have particularly happy memories of his school days, and he wants to prove to everyone that he deserves the success that came with the publication of his book.  
Two hours until Percival finishes at the office. That’s just enough to go down into the suitcase, feed the creatures and then start on dinner. He’s really not the best cook, but he can follow a recipe. But first, he will have to check up on his creatures, and on one of them in particular.  
The mooncalf shies away from his touch and eyes Newt suspiciously. “I know”, he mumbles, “you don’t like me touching your side, but I want to check up on your baby. Here -”, in his pocket, he finds one of the small biscuits he makes as treats for the graminivores. The creature sniffs the treat and then starts munching happily. Newt presses one hand onto the warm skin, puts his ear to the stethoscope. It takes a few seconds, until he picks up a heartbeat that’s too quick for a grown mooncalf. A glance at the watch he brought, and he starts counting. “Sounds just the way it should”, he reassures the mooncalf, reaches into his pocket again to pull out another biscuit. With one hand, he offers the treat, with the other one, he scratches the mooncalf behind the ears. “Just one more month, then you’ll be a mum.” The creature only blinks, then she turns away to chew on a particularly interestingly looking flower, and Newt takes it as his cue to leave. He stops in front of the bowtruckle tree. “How have you been doing?” Pickett tilts his head, but give an answer. “Would you like to come upstairs with me?”, Newt asks, and after a few seconds, the bowtruckle walks onto his outstretched palm.  
  
The meat is sizzling in the pan and Pickett is sitting at the sink when Newt hear the front door open. He takes a fork and checks on the pasta. It needs more time.  
“You’re cooking?”, comes Percival’s voice from the hallway. “Thank you so much for that, and sorry for being late.”  
Newt glances at the clock on the wall. “Not even ten minutes, that’s as good as being on time”, he calls back. “Do you want to take a shower before we eat?”  
Percival walks past him, disappears into his bedroom and comes back out again with a set of clothes in his arms. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Hello by the way.” He smiles, comes closer and is about to touch Newt’s arm when he spots the bowtruckle on his kitchen counter. “Oh”, he says. “Hey Pickett, nice to see you again. Did you two have a good day?” He doesn’t get a reaction.  
“We did, thank you”, Newt jumps in. “You have about ten minutes, so let’s talk over dinner, yeah?” As soon as Percival has wandered off into the bathroom, he bends down to look Pickett in the eye. “I know find it difficult that you have to share me with him now, but would it hurt to be just a little bit nicer to Percival? He’s not going to steal me away from you.” The bowtruckle makes himself as tall as possible and starts chittering so quickly that Newt has trouble understanding him. He’s jealous, that much is obvious. Newt sighs. He wouldn’t hold it against Percival if he eventually got tired of having to compete with a walking stick. “I’m not saying that. I’m only asking you to be a bit more polite. Like you are with my family, or with Tina and Queenie. Please.” Having deflated a bit, but still going on about the loyalty of a bowtruckle to its home tree, Pickett walks over to the fruit bowl, climbs onto an apple and starts to dissect an apple leaf with his long fingers. Newt decides to just let him be and turns back to the food.  
Percival comes back into the kitchen, towel on his shoulders and his office clothes in his hands. “Is there anything I can do besides setting the table?”, he asks.  
“Prepare the salad maybe?”, Newt asks. “I’m terrible with dressings. And I need your opinion on the sauce.”  
Tomatoes get cut into wedges and slide into a bowl, a few mushrooms start cleaning themselves and Percival fishes a teaspoon out of the cutlery drawer. His hair is still wet and he smells of mint. Could be shampoo, could be a shaving cream. “A pinch of pepper, if anything”, his soulmate decides next to him and Newt takes a deep breath. If he’d lean just a little bit to the left … Fingers strokes over Newt’s back, then Percival is on his right side, busies himself with the salad. It hadn’t taken long to grow used to getting touched like this, to the hands that are always warm and mostly gone quicker than Newt would want them to. He doesn’t quite know how to make them stay longer, but now is really not the time to think about that if he doesn’t want to risk the pasta turning into pulp.  
  
Percival only laughs when Newt tells him that Tina is reluctant to accept an invitation into his flat. “I could put a written invitation onto her desk at the office, if you think that might help convince her”, he offers. “At least you don't have to introduce us to each other.”  
“I didn't even think of that, but it's definitely an advantage”, Newt says. “Just like you don't have to introduce me to Burns because I already met him. How's Princess by the way?”  
He shakes his head, and Newt thinks it's because of the name of Mary's owl, but then Percival swallows his food, wets his lips. “I haven’t … I haven’t talked about my soulmark with anyone.” He looks at the jumper that covers his right arm. “I was interrogated before I was reinstated at MACUSA, and they also asked about the mark. Soulmate unknown, that was all I had to offer at that time, and I’m sure it made the round in the office. Of course I could have told Burns, but I don’t want any questions about when or how I received the mark.”  
Newt shrugs. “You don’t need to say anything about that. You don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to, of course. But maybe it’s nice to talk to someone about soulmate things or even about me, I guess, and if you wanted to do that, then I’d be okay with it.” Newt breathes out. He isn’t sure if that came out as logical as it had sounded in his head. “What I mean”, he clarifies, “is that I don’t mind you telling Burns that I’m your soulmate. Just in case you ever want to tell him.”  
Percival nods and gives him a smile, but it’s not a particularly happy one. He’s thinking about Grindelwald, Newt can see it in his eyes. There has been nothing but cautious silence when it comes to whatever happened to Percival, and Newt accepts that. Sometimes, he seems to be deep in thought, staring at nothing in particular, his gaze as distanced as it is right now. And a few nights ago, the running water had woken Newt at three in the morning. During breakfast, he hadn’t commented on the fact that it doesn’t seem particularly useful to take a shower in the middle of the night when the shift at work doesn’t start before lunch. The sound of his own cutlery falling to the table makes Percival flinch. Next to him, the salt cellar slides over the table, and before Newt has the chance to catch it, it falls over the edge, shatters on the floor. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to, let me fix this, yeah?” Percival doesn’t look at him while he gets up, but Newt is quicker, casts a Reparo. A cleaning charm makes the salt disappear into thin air.  
“It’s okay, I can go buy new salt tomorrow, no problem at all.” He gets a shaky laugh in reply. Percival look like he wants to disagree, but Newt doesn’t let him. He puts the salt cellar back on the table. They are standing so close together that he could easily pull him into a hug now, or press a kiss to Percival's cheek. He raises one hand, but then decides to lower it again. Maybe Percival doesn’t want to be comforted, maybe this is one of the situations in which physical contact is a bit too much. Newt clears his throat. “I could always go into my case if you’d rather be alone for a while”, he offers.  
“No”, Percival says, breathes out. “Just … Give me five minutes outside, please?”  
Newt waves a hand. “Take your time.” The door to the rooftop deck slides open and Newt shivers. Standing in the cold would anyone help clear their head. Percival disappears, door closing behind him, and Newt sits down to finish his pasta. When he turns around, just to check up on Percival, he can see nothing but his own reflection against the darkness of New York’s sky.  
  
“Are you making tea?”, Percival asks, closes the door behind himself. “Because I think I’d take a cup.”  
Newt puts the clean plates away and takes the kettle from the hob. “Tea is already in the living room”, he says, “and your food is in the fridge. We have so many leftovers, I don’t think we need to cook tomorrow.” He smiles at Percival who doesn’t do more than blink back. The time outside seems to have helped him, he is definitely more composed now. His jaw isn’t as tense and his eyes are softer again. But besides that, he’s very clearly uncomfortable, and Newt is sure that it’s not only a day at work that makes Percival look this tired.  
“Newt, I’m really-”  
“Tell me after you’ve had your tea”, Newt interrupts and pulls him towards the living room. He doesn’t need an apology, he doesn’t want Percival to feel guilty, and he most definitely doesn’t need him to catch a cold when there’s a hot drink and a fire and a blanket only a few steps away.  
Percival sits down and buries his head in his hands. Newt gives him a few second before he places a blanket on his back and wraps an arm around him. “I’m sorry”, comes through the hands, “just … memories.” He takes his cup of tea and sighs.  
Newt leans back on the sofa, his hand still on Percival’s shoulder. “If there is anything I can do to make it easier, or anything I should do differently, please tell me”, he says. He wants to add that he’ll always try his best to listen, but Percival has put his tea down, has turned towards him. He doesn’t blink, and Newt doesn’t know what exactly he’s looking for or seeing in his face. It makes him nervous.  
  
Eventually, Percival does blink, smiles at Newt. “Could I …” He doesn't finish the question but moves closer until their heads are right next to each other. His hair is dry now, and the smell of mint is not as prominent as it had been earlier in the evening. Newt closes his eyes. Percival’s fingers are on his knee, he is rumpling the fabric between his finger, and he breathes in deeply. “I still have nightmares”, he mumbles.  
Newt blinks. He wants to stay just like this with his fingers on Percival's shoulder, but he also wants to look at his soulmate. Before he can decide which of those two options is the better one, Percival continues: “When I have a bad day, I almost expect to have a restless night. Sometimes I wake up from a nightmare and I feel like I can't breathe, and I’m convinced he's still here. Then it takes me some time to understand that it was just a dream.”  
“But you don't want to take any potions.” He doesn't even pose it as a question. Percival shakes his head just enough that Newt feels the hair brush against his neck. He turns the teacup in his hands and tries to think of something to say. Whenever he feels sad or anxious for whatever reason, he spends time with creatures. Growing up, it had been the hippogriffs that had willingly let him lie on their backs, at Hogwarts he’d spent hours in the owlery with Iris, and now he only has to disappear into his case. Newt sits up straighter. “Have you ever met a demiguise?”, he asks.  
Next to him, Percival suppresses a yawn. He moves away, tries to find a new comfortable position. “I don’t think I know what a demiguise is, to be honest. Not without looking it up in your book”, he admits, grabs a cushion. It takes him a few moments to sort everything out, but then he is lying on his back. Without thinking about it, Newt starts to run his hands through Percival’s hair.  
“Their pelts are turned into invisibility cloaks.” That’s the keyword most people understand.  
“How many of them would you need to kill for a cloak?”  
“Fifty”, Newt says. “Up to sixty, if they are small. Anyway, there’s -”  
“That’s a lot of creatures”, Percival interrupts, adjusts the blanket around himself.  
It almost makes Newt laugh how serious he sounds. “Yes, far too many.” He sighs, remembers all the traps he had found in the Far East. He had destroyed hundred of them in the few days he’d spent in the rainforest. “I don’t understand how people can hunt them. Demiguises are so peaceful and harmless, they are caring and calming. I once rescued one from a few poachers, now he has a habitat down in my suitcase. I think you two would get along really well.”  
Percival looks up at him, brows furrowed. “Are you trying to offer me a therapy creature? Because I don’t need one.” He sounds defensive, rearranges the blanket around himself and turns away.  
“Good thing that was not what I was saying”, Newt replies, touches his soulmate’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t want to be a pet anyway. I only wanted to invite you to visit my suitcase, and Dougal just happens to be a friend living in there.”  
“Dougal?”, Percival repeats, clearly amused, and turns back so they can look at each other again. “Did you choose that name?” Newt only hums in reply, allows his soulmate to take his hand. “Okay. Pickett and Dougal”, he says. “Who else will I meet when I visit your case?”  
Fingers wander over Newt’s palm and his pulse point, crawl up his skin until they have reached the soulmark. Percival traces the shape with his fingers, tickling and distracting, but Newt doesn’t want to pull away. “Pickett, Dougal, Harold”, he says, determined to keep his voice steady. “The others don’t have names. Except for Iris, of course, but she’s my owl, I guess that’s different.” He sees his soulmate smile at him and he knows he’s rambling. For a moment, Newt considers pulling his arm away, but decides against it. He likes the way it feels, and he can deal with a little bit of distraction.  
“Owls are probably different, yes”, Percival agrees. His thumb is pressing against the pads of the paw, one after the other. Newt takes a deep breath and tries to remember which habitat is the one closest to the bowtruckle tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter Eggs:
> 
> \- the reason behind the number of demiguises you'd need for an invisibility cloak: 50 to 60 minks is how many you need to make a full-length fur coat.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> You left more than 450 kudos so far, and over 100 bookmarks (and quite an impressive amount of comments as well)! You are the best, and I thank you all so much for supporting this story—can you tell I'm already starting to feel a bit sentimental because 'a little bit lost' will end soon? (Although there will be a second part, so why am I even complaining?)
> 
> Here's the 23rd chapter, I hope you like it. The next one will come online on April 22nd!
> 
> Love  
> shortbread

**23**

  
Rupert cleans his feathers and blinks at Percival’s breakfast. Would it harm the owl to eat a piece of bacon? Probably not, but then again there are more owl treats in the cupboard than ever before, and they are probably much healthier. Percival summons the bag with a mumbled Accio. _Favourite Flavours Mix_ , it says on the pack, and _Eylops Owl Emperium’s Quality Promise_. It's a British brand, one of the things Newton has brought into the flat, along with books, tea and the crow feather quills he uses to write his notes. Percival finishes his coffee, checks his watch. Just enough time to go to the bathroom. He fishes one of the sticks out of the bag of treats. It smells like beef jerky and something Percival can't identify. Rupert takes it between one of his claws and starts nibbling happily. Cutlery and crockery rinse themselves in the sink and Percival adjusts the tie he had slung over his shoulder, grabs the silver MACUSA cufflinks. He tries to remember what's on the agenda today. Morning meeting with the President, lunch with a colleague from Border Control and then a quiet afternoon with reports and documents. It's not long until the conference in London, and while negotiations with the Mexicans have been easy, Graves still needs to go through the paperwork the Canadians have sent, and that preferably before the meeting in three days. Suppressing a yawn, Percival takes his coat, walks by the door to Newton's room and out into his day.

“In my professional opinion, there is no reason to change the current laws”, Collins says. “Its best if humans and creatures don't interact.”  
Percival takes a biscuit and resists the wish to dunk it into his coffee. A few months ago, the Laws Regarding the Treatment of Beasts had been nothing but another item on the sheer endless agenda for Picquery’s morning meetings. But then he'd met his soulmate and now it's a topic he is actually interested in for reasons that go beyond his role as Director of Magical Security. He's listened to the complaints more than once, and he can actually understand the criticism. If Newton is right – and why wouldn't he be? – peaceful coexistence is not just a silly idea.  
“In short: I don't think breeding, trading, keeping magical creatures should be allowed. The magical community has enough problems as it is.” Collins looks around, tries to find approval in the faces of other people.  
“Well”, Mamade President says with her eyes still fixed on a piece of parchment. “If I remember correctly, Mister Scamander had different ideas. He seemed to think that beasts can be rather useful. Director Graves, your thoughts please?”  
She’s about to make her decision, and now she wants his opinion. He is always the last one to speak, and Percival knows that she trusts him, he knows he can get what he wants if he only plays his cards right. Picquery usually takes his words into consideration. He’s spent more than enough time thinking about what he can do to support Newton's vision, and what MACUSA might be most likely to agree to. “Director Collins says that humans and creatures shouldn’t interact, but fact is they already do”, he says because he knows he is right, and because Picquery likes facts. “At least in my department. We hardly have a case of smuggling or theft that doesn’t involve at least one bowtruckle or a niffler. And there is no trading ring that doesn’t try to sell dragon eggs, unicorn horn powder or something similar. Decriminalisation of at least the breeding of creatures might result in fewer cases. Harmless beings could be sold legally, and having people register their creatures can tell us what we are actually dealing with. In my opinion, both national and international security would benefit from new laws.”  
“Legalising breeding would lead to chaos!”, Collins protests. “How would you prevent that?”  
Percival only shrugs. “As far as I know, breeding is allowed in Britain, and yet their number of crimes involving the trading of creatures is lower. I guess I’d ask their Beast Department for advice, they seem to have it all worked out.” Maybe it was not very polite to imply that magizoologists at MACUSA don’t know what they are doing, but this is not about being polite, it’s about change.  
Collins looks like he wants to argue again, but Picquery is quicker: “If you could get the necessary information until next week’s meeting, Director, so we can decide which laws to change and remove the whole beast issue from our agenda …”  
“Of course”, Collins says, makes a note on the parchment in front of him, and the President is already talking about MACUSA’s financial situation.

The colleague from Border Control is nice, Graves had genuinely looked forward to having lunch together. When the alarm goes off, he manages to scribble a short apology and to send it on its way before Burns comes into his office to tell him that it’s time to go.  
Wands really shouldn’t go up into flames in the middle of a busy Brooklyn street. There are far too many No-Majs around that need to be obliviated, and although they do their best, they can only hope that nobody starts a rumour. The last thing New York needs is another witch hunt. Percival puts his arm around the young witch whose coat has a large burn hole and apparates them away.  
The smell makes him feel dizzy. A nurse rushes to his side, tells him to place the victim on a bed he summons. The air is too sterile. It had smelled just like this when he'd finally woken up from the nightmare of being Grindelwald’s prisoner. “Are there any more?”, the healer repeats his question. Percival blinks and remembers that he is on a mission.  
“I brought the other person in, a Healer Jacob helped me”, Burns says. Percival hadn't even heard him coming. He breathes in and out. He can't let memories take over, not now. While Burns and the healer discuss the usual procedure of running tests and sending the results to MACUSA, Percival stays silent and tries to focus on the next step. They will have to talk to a wand expert and to the permit office.  
“I’ll make sure you receive the documents as quickly as possible. Interrogation … Maybe this afternoon? We'll owl your department.” The healer offers his hand, they both shake it and then they are left alone in the chaos of the hospital's entrance hall.

Although the floating Lumos balls light the large office well enough, Percival is glad that he doesn't have to work here. There are no windows, and the constant rustling of memo mice is quite irritating. Queenie Goldstein comes out of the darkness in the back of the room. She is carrying a stack of parchment, and greets him with a smile. “Director Graves", she says, “what can I do for you?”  
“I’d like to have a look at two wand permits. One Eliza Brown, and one Shawn Wilson, both born thirty years ago and from New York.”  
Goldstein puts the parchments she'd been holding onto a pile on a desk. “Give me a minute.” She disappears again, one of the Lumos lights floats next to her. While Graves is waiting, a man enters the office. Still chewing on a sandwich, he only gives a short nod and Percival remembers that he hasn't eaten yet. Chances of going home on time are getting smaller when there's an unsolved case on the table.  
“Here you go, Director”, Goldstein's voice comes from behind a shelf, and two pages are floating towards him before he can see her. “I made you a copy of each permit, or would you rather take the originals with you?”  
“Copies are fine, thank you”, he says and isn't even out the door when he's already glancing at the parchment. The goblin in the loft doesn't need to ask for a floor number.

The permits are not as helpful as he’d hoped. Both victims have one registered wand each, bought at one of New York’s wand shops at about the time they were old enough to go to Ilvermorny. As far as he can judge, the wand ingredients are nothing unusual either. He takes a piece of parchment and divides it into two columns. First victim, second victim. He dips the quill into the inkpot when Burns comes into the office.  
“I asked Miller from the Magical Objects Department for his opinion”, he says. “According to him, it's a simple wand malfunction. He said it happens more often than you'd think.”  
“Two wands at the same time, at the same place? Doesn't seem like a coincidence”, Percival mumbles, weaves his office door open for Jackson and Fayden who brought coffee to kick off their shift. “What if someone wanted to expose magical people in the middle of a No-Maj crowd to trigger a new witch hunt?”  
“By making two wands burst into flames?”, Jackson asks, bows over the map of New York. “Somewhere here?” He draws a circle and they all look at it. Yes, there had been a lot of people around, but in comparison to places like Times Square, the location seems almost boring.  
“If you’re right and there was another party involved, it would have been a witch or wizard”, comes from Fayden. “No-Majs could break a wand, or burn it, but not manipulate it. And who would want to break the Statute of Secrecy? Even Grindelwald’s attacks were carefully concealed from the non-magical people.”  
Percival sighs. Maybe Fayden is right and it’s really nothing. Still, you can never be too careful. “The hospital sent a report, there were only minor burns and the victims are ready to be interrogated. And since both wands were purchased at Wolfe’s, they should be informed.”  
“Looking at the state of your desk, and taking into account that Fayden still has to finish his last report, I’d suggest Jackson and I take over”, Burns says. “Then I’ll be happy because I did more than obliviate a few people, and you will be happy because finishing paperwork is always nice.”  
Fayden mumbles something that sounds like “I wish we didn’t share an office” while Jackson looks excited. “I’m in”, he says and gets up. “Director, Fayden, see you later.” With that, he is out of the door to get his coat. Burns takes his coffee and follows suit.  
“Enjoy writing your report, Fayden”, Graves jokes, lets the envelope the Canadians had sent float from his desk to the seating area.  
His colleague rolls his eyes. “I won’t, Director, but thank you.” He closes the door behind himself, and Percival is left alone. He asks a house elf for sandwich and water and starts reading.  
  
“You’re still here?” Burns stands in the door to the office. Percival looks at his watch, blinks. He should have gone home an hour ago.  
“Yes, well …” The Canadians have included a lot of unnecessary details into their documents, laws and agreements that they have had for years but still think worth mentioning. “I didn’t set an alarm, and it’s a lot of text. Any news regarding the wands?”  
“Wolfe’s said that the victims can be glad that their wands didn’t explode, said they were in terrible condition. Jackson and I already talked to the victims, wrote the report, notified the permit office. It was a false alarm.” Burns buttons his coat. “I already owled Annie to tell her I’ll be home late. So … How about a drink? Come on, Perce, just to get out of this building together. I’m starting to feel like I’m only your colleague, not your friend, and I don’t like it. Buying Mary’s owl doesn’t count, and we both know you won’t read all this today.”  
He is right, of course. In the weeks after his discharge, Percival had concentrated on work to push the memories of Grindelwald away. He’d navigated through it all so carefully that there hadn’t been any time for family or friends. And then Newton had come along, someone to come home to. Someone who said he wouldn’t mind other people knowing about the soulmarks … Percival puts the documents into the envelope and locks them into a drawer. “I’ll blame you if the meeting with Leblanc goes wrong because I didn’t read everything”, he says and grabs his coat and scarf.  
Burns only grins and holds the door open for him.  
  
The Prohibition has never affected the magical world, and the bottles are on full display behind the barkeeper. “On the rocks or neat?”, Burns asks when he comes back to their corner, a tumbler in each hand. One of them orders, the other gets to choose, it has always been this way. Except now he doesn’t drink anymore, hasn’t touched alcohol in months, and Burns doesn’t know. Because somehow, Percival has stopped to talk to him about anything that might make him feel unsafe or weak or uncomfortable. It’s Grindelwald’s fault, his … treatment is the reason Percival has kept to himself. He looks at the drinks that are now on the table. “On the rocks”, he says because the ice will dilute the whisky and it will be easier to drink. The barkeeper surely wouldn’t accept a return. “Thanks for the invitation.” He raises his glass to Burns.  
His friend smiles, lets their tumblers cling against each other. “Next time is on you”, he says, and they both know there are no hard feelings. Burns looks at him, seems to hesitate, and Percival knows he wants to ask something like “How are you holding up?” or “Are you alright?”. He takes a first, careful sip. Although the ice numbs the feeling, the whiskey tingles in his throat.  
“How are you keeping yourself busy?”, Burns wants to know instead. “Do you already know the library’s entire magical history section by heart?”  
“Only the good books”, Percival says. “And I’m not reading that much anyway. I … I have someone who keeps me company.”  
“Company?”, Burns echoes. “You have a new girlfriend?”, he asks, and blinks when he doesn’t get a reaction. “Boyfriend, then?”  
He straightens his back, breathes in. “He’s my soulmate, actually.” It's almost too quiet between them. Burns opens his mouth and closes it again. It's not difficult to see that he isn't convinced yet, and because it can't get much worse, Percival takes another sip of whisky and says: “You've met him when we bought Mary’s pet.”  
It only takes a few seconds until Burns has made the connection. “You are kidding, right?”, he asks. “Scamander? But he's so …” He doesn't end the sentence.  
“British?”, Percival suggests jokingly.  
“Different”, Burns says. “Seemed rather shy, and talked about nothing but owls. No offence, but are you sure he’s your soulmate?”  
It’s not easy to open the cufflinks with his left hand and to roll up the sleeve. The wampus looks nice in the dim light. Percival rubs his thumb over the animal’s head. “Mary seemed to enjoy that someone shared her enthusiasm”, he says, laughs with Burns. “And he only needs a bit of time to warm up to people. He’s moved into my guest room, and it’s going great so far.”  
“The guest room? Why, was your bedroom too far away?”, Burns asks, and Percival coughs into his drink.  
“We’re not …”, he begins before he realises how ridiculous it would sound to deny anything. He might not have kissed Newton yet, but he wants to. He really wants to. And of course he’s wondered what it might be like to sleep next to each other. Or with each other … The whisky is cold in his throat, watered down yet smoky. “So”, he says, “what is going on in your life?”  
Burns shrugs. “Nothing that’s as interesting as you finally finding a soulmate”, he teases. “We’re still trying to find a place in New Jersey, somewhere close to my in-laws. I spent my last days off viewing different houses, but we haven’t found anything suitable yet. Too small, too expensive, too much money that we’d need to invest—the usual. If you happen to stumble upon something you think we might like, feel free to owl me.” He takes a sip of his drink, licks his lips. “Mary sends a lot more letters, now that she has her own owl. She’s on the Thunderbird quodpot team now. Annie is not too happy about it, but I think it’s great.” Percival laughs. Quodpot might sound dangerous, but it’s actually rather fun to play, and as long as you know when to throw the ball, there is no risk beyond the normal sport injuries. “If the enthusiasm last until the summer, we could take her to a game for her birthday.”  
“You could bring Scamander. Introduce him to American culture”, Burns suggests, and Percival laughs out loud. Newton had felt so uncomfortable at the Spring Party that it’s difficult to imagine he’d enjoy standing around with a few thousand people to watch a sport that he doesn’t even care about. He’d probably feel just as lost as Percival would next to a quidditch field. “Or at least bring him to dinner”, Burns suggests. “Annie has asked me to invite you anyway. She said she’d make cheesecake for dessert.”  
Evenings with Burns and his wife are always nice, and food only makes them better. It’s much more likely that Newton would agree to an invitation like this one—he’d once said he’d never turn down a good meal. “I can’t say no to that, can I?”, he eventually says. “I’ll owl you to fix a date.” Burns grins at him and they empty their tumblers together.  
  
Having walked home with a lazily cast heating charm covering his hands, he needs to flex his fingers a few times before he can untie his shoes. The flat is quiet, and there is no reaction when Percival knocks on the door to the guest room. “Newton?”, he calls again, and then he shrugs, makes his way into the kitchen. He needs a large glass of water before he can fall into bed. The documents from the Canadians will have to wait. Maybe he’ll manage to read a bit over breakfast. He looks up when the door to the roof terrace opens.  
There is his soulmate, smiling at him, wrapped in his coat and his long grey and yellow scarf. He’s holding a cup of tea, and there’s an owl sitting on his shoulder that is definitely not Rupert.  
“I took Iris from the case so she could see New York”, Newton explains. “You’re a bit confused by all the lights down there, aren’t you, girl?” He buries one hand in the bird’s feathers, and Percival wonders if he’d get his fingers bitten off if he were to try that with his own owl.  
They are standing not quite inside, not quite outside, but he doesn’t want to go into the cold again, and Newton doesn’t move either.“There were exploding wands at work, so Burns and I went for a drink. Whisky”, Percival eventually says. “My first since -. And I told him about you.”  
There is a careful smile on his soulmate's lips. “That’s … good?”, he asks more than he comments. There is a feather in his hair, and Percival thinks that kissing him right now is probably a really bad idea if he doesn’t want to risk getting attacked by Newton's owl.  
“He invited us for dinner, so yes, it's really good.”  
Newton looks at him, blinks. "Dinner", he repeats, nodding. "I knew I'd forgotten something. Have you eaten yet?" He squeezes past Percival, closes the door behind himself. Not waiting for an answer, he begins to set the table. Bread, butter, cheese. "Do you want to tell me more about Burns, and about the dinner plans?"  
The mood has shifted, that much is obvious. Newton is not very comfortable around people, Percival remembers him saying that, but he hadn't expected his soulmate to be this nervous just because somebody invited him for dinner. "If you'd rather not have dinner with Burns and his wife, we can cancel", he suggest.  
Newton only waves the hand he's holding the knife with. "No, it's okay, of course we'll have dinner together", he insists. "It's just … I'm not the best with people, and what if they don't … I just like to know what to expect."  
"Cheesecake", Percival says. "Expect the best cheesecake I know. I've been trying to get the recipe from Annie for years, but she says it's a secret, and she wouldn't trust me to bake a decent cake anyway, not even with magic. She's probably right." Newton laughs, and Percival reaches over the table to pick the owl feather out of the curls.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> Thank you for all your support. It feels like the kudos have skyrocketed, I still can't believe the number. And people still leave comments, and others set bookmarks, and some of you even do all of that together. You're all fabulous. Thank you so much!
> 
> This is not even the last chapter and I'm already feeling ridiculously emotional. It is, however, the longest chapter I have written so far, almost twice the normal wordcount! It is has been the most challenging (I know that I complain about almost every chapter, but believe me, this one was truly something else). I hope you like it as much as I do!  
> By the way—this fanfic now has more words than 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone'! :)
> 
> The next chapter (the last one!) will be uploaded in two weeks, May 6th.
> 
> Until then enjoy reading, commenting, liking and bookmarking!  
> Love  
> shortbread

**24**

There is a note on the table when Newt comes into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower. Although he likes the process of making tea, it would take too long today. He points his wand, watches the tea bag soak with boiling water, adds milk, and then he can finally sit down and breathe. The feeding round had been more of a duty than a pleasure this morning. Harold had tried to get him to admire the collection of shiny things, Dougal had hovered around him far more than was normal, and one of the mooncalves had used Newt's shirt as tissue. He'd taken a second shower, had found something clean to put on and had looked forward to breakfast together – only to find a piece of parchment: _I'm sorry, Newton, Picquery called me in. I'll try to get home as soon as possible._ That, Newt decides, sounds like it could take a while. So much for spending his last day here with his soulmate … He takes a sip of his tea.  
Two post owls knock on the terrace door. Newton opens the door, watches the birds drop their deliveries to the counter and picking out the right amount of money from the bowl of change. Before Newt can even think of offering a piece of dry toast, the owls have disappeared again. The letters are for Percival, just like the _Time-Turner_. He leaves them on the counter, and unfolds his own newspaper, casts a quick drying spell.  
There is a picture of Headmaster Dippet on the front page. _Dippet Announces Changes in Hogwarts Curriculum_. The article seems to have something to do with potions, and there is no mention of the idea of introducing a subject related to creatures. His book, however, is still on the bestseller list. Newt flips page after page until he's found the Quidditch tables in the sports section. The Appleby Arrows have been defeated by Puddlemere United. If they lose their next game, he'll write a letter to Luke to remind him of their bet. Depending on the amount of work, he'll be able to squeeze a visit to Wales into his schedule, maybe after his visit to Hogwarts. Newt butters a piece of bread, takes his time to decide between two different kinds cheese. He had hoped for an extended breakfast of the sort he doesn't get too often, one with at least three cups of tea, but it will be only half the fun without Percival. And now there is nothing to do, apart from the evening feeding round. The suitcase is clean, the pantry has been stocked up, he has answered every single letter he’d received over the past few days, and he has re-read his notes for the presentation. If the weather were nicer, he'd go visit Jacob's bakery, but it looks like he'll only go outside to get some groceries, and then he’ll spend the rest of the day inside.  
  
The quick run to the shops has been more than enough. Enough noise, enough strange American products, enough rain. It hadn’t even helped to have a shopping list, the mass of people had made it impossible to just fill a basket and disappear again. The cashier had looked impatient when it had taken him a few seconds to hand over the right amount of bills. And because the city had been too crowded, apparating would have been too much of a risk. Closing the door behind himself, he takes a deep breath. “Percival, are you home?” No answer.  
  
Newt has wrapped a blanket around himself and a heating charm around the teapot on the table. Going through shelf after shelf, he counts so many books with the word ‘history’ in the title that Percival could probably open his own small library on the subject. Then there are magazines, some of them about security and various laws in the magical community, and in the bottom shelf, Newt finds what seem to be Percival's old schoolbooks. _Advanced Potions_ , _Charms and Spells: Year 3_ and _Defence Against Dark Magic_ all sound similar to what they used to work with at Hogwarts. The copy of _Basic_ _Transfiguration_ is so well-thumbed that a few pages fall out when Newt opens it. How to turn a coin into a beetle or a soup bowl into a set of cutlery. Some parts of the instructions are underlined, and sometimes, there are notes in the margins. _up-down-right_ , Newt deciphers on one page, and _tip_ _gently_ _!!!_ On another. He flips through the book, puts page after page back and fixes the binding with a simple Reparo. Between one of the last pages, he stumbles upon a photograph. It's a family portrait, parents and two children. They are all wearing festive robes, jewellery and cufflinks are gleaming in the sunshine. _Lynnette's graduation (1903)_ , it says on the back, and Newt turns the picture around again to take a closer look. The girl is clearly the centre of attention, both parents turned towards her, while Percival stands next to his father. He gives a half-hearted smile as if he’d rather not be in the photograph, then he looks up to his mother and smiles again, more broadly this time. If the American system works like the one at Hogwarts, then Lynnette would have been seventeen when she graduated. Newt doesn’t know how many years the Graves siblings are apart. He doesn’t even know his soulmate’s birthday, he realises. The picture was taken in 1903, the year he, Newt, had turned six. Together with Theseus, he had been allowed to visit their grandparents in the north for a week. They had slept in one room together, and granny had told the best bedside stories. About the adventures her pet, a large half-kneazle, went on, about dragons, giants and ghosts, or about soulmates. Newt remembers his grandpa sitting on his large rocking-chair, always reading one newspaper or another, and the toy brooms they had brought home from their holiday. Mum had made them promise that they wouldn’t fly over her vegetable patch, but Theseus had done it anyway, and then he’d fallen off his broom and into the tomatoes. Newt looks at the picture again, tries to imagine what Percival might have been like as a child, and if he'd been allowed to fly around the garden. One last look at the photograph before Newt puts it back between the pages of the book.  
  
Loud tapping pulls him out of _North America’s Nature_. It takes a few seconds until he realises it’s the noise of claws tapping against glass. Getting up, he almost bumps against the teacup he’d placed on the floor. The owl is sitting at the kitchen window, and Newt takes the bowl of change into his hand before he opens the terrace door. “I still don’t understand the American currency, so you pick, please”, Newt tells the bird. Before he can do as much as offer a treat, he is already alone again. He unfolds the parchment. It’s Percival’s neat handwriting on MACUSA’s official stationary. _I hope you had a good day so far. I should get out of here soon, I’m just wrapping up. See you in in about an hour!_ Just in time for dinner then. He wanders back into the living room, warms the abandoned tea with a quick heating spell.  
  
He hadn’t even heard the front door close, looks up from his article when Percival asks what he's reading. “Nice to see you. Are you done saving the world for today, or whatever else it was your boss needed you for?” Percival laughs, and Newt knows he wouldn’t get any information out of him, even if he tried. A lot of the things he does are classified or related to MACUSA’s internal affairs or both. Mostly both.  
“Sorry they called me in and it took so long. Let me just get into something more comfortable, then I’m all yours.” He fiddles with his sleeve.  
Newt gets up, takes his soulmate’s hand. “Let me help?”, he asks, already removing the first cufflink. “Should we get started on an dinner right away?” It’s easier to eat before the feeding rond. Besides, it’s fun to watch Percival perform all sorts of cooking spells, the ones that Newt had always been too lazy to learn.  
Percival opens his hand, and Newt lets the cufflinks fall into it. “I already put the recipe on the counter. Give me a minute.” With that, he disappears. Newt can hear the bedroom door close and collects both his empty teacup and the newspaper from the floor.  
  
“How was your day?”, Percival asks more into the fridge than at him. Water is already boiling, the oven is already warm.  
“Quiet”, Newt says. “I went to the supermarket, read up on what’s happening in the British Quidditch League, checked if I’ve really packed my things, and then I looked through your bookshelf.” He takes the tomatoes out of Percival’s hands. “I found your books from school. One of them looked rather battered, I fixed that for you.”  
Percival blinks at him, closes the door of the fridge with his shoulder. Next to him on the counter, their dinner starts to build itself. “You repair one of my old books, but refuse to get a new suitcase?”  
“The book was falling apart in my hands.”  
“You keep a cord tied around your suitcase, Newton. It’s not exactly safe”, Percival shakes his head, adjusts the oven temperature.  
Newt points his wand at the vegetables. A knife begins to slice them. “Have you met any of my creatures in this flat yet?”, he asks. “No. Because it has a functioning lock. The rope is only an additional precaution.”  
“I’ve met Pickett”, Percival points out while the table sets itself, and Newt only laughs. Pickett doesn’t count, and he hasn’t come upstairs with him for a few days anyway. Newt has talked to him about soulmates, but the bowtruckle still seems sceptical. Percival could probably offer him a container full of woodlice and he’d refuse it.  
“Newton?” Percival touches his arm. “I asked if you heard anything from the Goldsteins.”  
The idea to invite Queenie and Tina had come as a surprise, and it had taken Newt a few seconds to understand that Percival hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Tina works a late shift, and Queenie has some sort of … dressmaking event? I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s just you and me. So I’d say we eat, then I tell you … things about thunderbirds and hippogriffs, and then I’ll have to do the feeding round. Shouldn’t take too long.”  
Percival nods, takes a sip of his drink. “Would you mind if I joined you?” He asks so casually that Newt stops chewing his salad for a moment and just stares at his soulmate.  
“Join me?”, he echoes after he’s swallowed the mouthful of food. “You mean on the feeding round?”  
“Well, yes. If I’m not in the way. And if you want me to-”  
Newt laughs out loud before the sentence has even ended because of course he wants Percival to see where he spends the bigger part of his day. “I’d love to show you around my suitcase, which is perfectly safe by the way.” He grins when the only reply is a deep sigh.  
  
Newt breathes out and lowers the parchment. “Time?”  
“Fifteen”, Percival says with a glance at his watch. “Twenty when we count the brief introduction to hippogriff etiquette that you gave me.”  
“Let's not count that.” The people he'll speak in front of all know the rules of bowing without blinking and talking before touching. “Any comments?” He lets himself fall to the sofa and leans his head against Percival’s shoulder. “Did I speak too slowly? People sometimes think that I do.”  
“You had just the right pace for me, and I feel confident that I’d recognise a hippogriff, or a thunderbird, if I were to meet one. If you want to, you can close the presentation the way you began it, say that everything you just pointed out could lead to lots of opportunities in … whatever part of magizoology it is.”  
“Genetics maybe”, Newt suggests. “Someone else will have to do the research there, though, I’m more interested in behavioural science.”  
He looks up at Percival who only shrugs. “It won’t be me either. I guess my auror work is also behavioural science, only with more humans and less creatures. Bowtruckles and nifflers, that’s all.”  
“More than enough to keep you busy. Speaking of nifflers, you should make sure you’re not carrying anything shiny with you before we go into the case.”  
Percival fishes a handful of coins out of a pocket and places his watch on the table. “Ready.” He gets up, pulls Newt with him until they stand in front of the guest room. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”.  
Newt lets the door fall shut behind them and pulls his wand out to loosen the cord around the suitcase that’s lying in the middle of the room. “Don't step on insects, don't draw your wand unless I tell you to, don't shout.”  
“Okay. I'll just keep close to you, I guess", Percival mumbles, and he sounds rather nervous. Newt almost laughs about it, and opens the latches. The suitcase flips open.  
“Guests first.” He makes an inviting gesture. “We’re just going down into my shed, there’s nothing to worry about. Apart from the usual chaos.” He grins. “I’ll be right behind you.” His soulmate nods, sets a first foot on the stairs. Newt follows, pulls the suitcase shut behind him.  
  
Percival is looking at the shelves full of books and potions, the desk with the stacks of letters, notes, drawings, the pictures and the map of the suitcase on the wall. Newt lets him take it all in for a few seconds, uses to time to water the few potted plants he keeps in the shed before he walks over to the door, unlocks it with a tip of his wand. “We’ll get the food from the pantry and then walk through the different habitats, if that’s okay? If you would take the second wheelbarrow, we could manage it all in one go. Just close the door behind yourself so I don’t get bugs creeping all over my notes.” They leave the shed, and Newt laughs when Percival stops after half a step. It’s always the same reaction, no matter who he brings down here.  
“This is …”, Percival starts and looks around. “It’s huge!”, he says, although all they can see from here are the bowtruckle tree, the occamies, the old thunderbird habitat and the edge of the meadow. For Newt, it’s nothing too exciting, but the constant buzzing of insects, the blue of the occamies and the colourful fwoopers flying around are probably a lot for people who are not as used to creatures as he is. “How long did it take you to create all this? The transfiguration work is amazing.”  
“Well,” Newt takes Percival’s hand into his. “I had a few failed attempts in the beginning. Didn’t close the habitats properly, put creatures next to each other that shouldn’t have to live next to each other, didn’t manage to create barriers that the creatures can’t walk through, but I can. Things like that. I’d say I’ve had a proper suitcase without accidents, for about four years now.” He pulls his soulmate down the stairs with him and his wand from his pocket. “One time, quite early on, I forgot to lock the pantry, and when I came down the next morning, half the supplies were gone.” He pushes the door open, casts a Lumos. The wheelbarrows are standing in their corner and Newt lets them roll outside. “Here’s the list of what I feed at the moment.” The Lumos floats at the wall. “Everything should be labelled, if you want to help preparing for the herbivores. It’s not much.” He starts shrinking and directing pieces of meat into one wheelbarrow, and Percival watches him for a few seconds before he draws his wand and turns towards the list. Newt watches him fill the wheelbarrow with hay and the basic plant mix.  
“Which ones are the protein pellets?”, he asks.  
“The yellowish ones, over here.” Newt casts another Lumos and takes a few steps into the pantry. “There’s not much left, I’ll have to order new ones.”  
“Are those _brains_?”, Percival asks close behind him, seems to have forgotten about his initial question. “Human brains?”

Newt grabs one of the jars from the shelf, turns around and presses the bag of protein pellets into his soulmate’s hands. “Not all of them”, he says, and when Percival only stares at him, he shrugs. “This one’s too small. Belonged to some kind of ape, I think.” He glances at the label. “Ah yes, chimpanzee. Human brains are hard to come by, as they should be, so the swooping evil only gets them once in a while. A special treat, so to say.”  
Percival furrows his brows. “You feed human brains to some kind of creature? I highly doubt that’s legal in any somewhat developed country, Newton.” He sounds disbelieving and a bit like he wants to sign a form to revoke Madame Picquery’s permit.  
“Nothing I do in here is illegal, but thanks for your concern”, Newt replies more sharply than he’d wanted to. He puts the jar into his wheelbarrow. “I get the animal brains from butchers or farms that don’t need them. The humans ones from St Mungo’s. They do research or use them during the healer training before I get them. Feel free to check the documents, they are in a folder in my shed.” He pats Percival on the shoulder and moves past him. The food for the carnivores is ready, and he checks the second wheelbarrow, adds another handful of plant mix and two cups of grain. His soulmate is still staring at the shelf, and Newt isn’t sure if he should find the situation worrying or amusing. “Come on, Percival, we just had chicken for dinner. Creatures eat other creatures all the time”, he says. “I feed a natural diet, that’s all.” Drawing his wand, he lets the Lumos move towards the door.  
Finally, Percival turns around, looks at him. “This … creature”, he says, “just happens to eat brains, and you get them by buying them. Legally. From legal and certified sources.” When Newt nods, he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for my reaction.”  
“Sorry for not warning you”, Newt replies. “I should have thought of it.” He closes the door behind them, locks it with a simple spell. “If it makes you feel better: one of my colleagues from the Ministry started screaming when she saw the shelf for the first time.” He laughs about the memory, and he can see Percival bite back a grin. “Anyway”, he says, “this is the bowtruckle tree over here, and it’s always my first stop.” He takes the container of woodlice, scatters a handful over the leaves. Pickett is watching him, picks up a first snack. “I’m showing Percival around, do you want to join us?”, Newt asks and offers his hand. No reaction, and he gives his soulmate an apologetic smile. “Let’s go.”  
  
The murtlaps prefer to stay hidden, and all Newt can do is point out the tentacles on their backs that are swaying in the water like sea anemones. “Let’s go find the graphorns next”, he says, fills a bucket with the chunks of meat and they take a first step into the rocky terrain. Percival next to him is quiet, and as they get higher, he turns around a few times to taking the different landscapes, and Newt tucks his sleeve when he sees the shadow of the first graphorn come towards them through the mist. “I found them on a trip through eastern Europe and decided to take the couple in so they could raise their family in peace. Graphorns are endangered, I don’t think there is another breeding pair left, and I haven’t heard of many young ones. It’s a shame, they are wonderful creatures. Very polite and gentle. They always come to greet me before I feed them. If they want to say hello to you as well just stay still, they won’t hurt you.”  
“Okay”, Percival says, and then he doesn’t talk anymore because the mother graphorn has reached them. She makes one of her rumbling noises, and Newt knows she’s happy to see him. “Have you been waiting?”, he asks before he feels the soft tentacles gently tugging his hair and patting his forehead. He turns his head to glance at Percival. The two young graphorn are sniffing at his fingers while the father watches them. “Alright”, Newt mumbles and ducks away from the tentacles. “We still have half the case to feed, so here’s your dinner.” He throws the first piece of meat, and all four creatures turn their heads. The second and the third spark the father’s interest and he picks one up.  
“Can I?”, Percival asks, one hand already in the bucket. Before he can throw the meat, one of the smaller graphorns has already stretched out its tentacles. Percival looks like he wants to protest, but it’s too late. The graphorn starts chewing, turns around and walks away.  
“Your first time down here, and you’ve already made a friend. Well done.” Newt grins at his soulmate.  
Percival cleans his hands with a Scourgify. “Maybe I have an undiscovered talent”, he jokes, and reaches into the bucket again, and Newt thinks he might actually be right about that.  
  
The nundu is growling, pacing along the habitat’s border. Newt uses his wand to let the meat float into the area, and while Percival is busy looking at the beast, he washes the ape brain, places it at the entrance of the swooping evil’s small cave. “They are generally considered the most dangerous of all magical creatures”, Newt says when he’s next to Percival again. “Please don’t say anything that contains the words ‘irresponsible’, ‘idiotic’ or ‘reckless’. I’ve heard all of that from Theseus. And don’t question my permits. Actually, why don’t we just move along?” Percival laughs, and Newt pulls him to the next habitat. The erumpent is grazing in the little savannah, doesn’t even look up when hay and plant mix get thrown over the magical border. “Herbivore, harmless until you attack. The African wizarding community worships them, a bit like unicorns here. I think someone once told me that there’s a kind of creation myth in which erumpents play an important role, but I might be confusing that with a story about some other creature.” The erumpent turns its head at the noise, seems to realise that there are humans around and stomps away to find a more secluded corner of the habitat. Newt picks up a few of the dried flowers that had fallen off the wheelbarrow. When he looks up again, he sees Percival already standing in front of the dark mooncalf habitat.  
He’s offering his hand to one of the creatures, looks up when Newt comes closer. “Your overgrown squirrel is chewing on my fingers.” He grins.  
“It’s a mooncalf”, Newt says, “and I’m sure she would prefer to chew on a few protein pellets. Just throw them, she’ll catch them with her mouth, and the others will come along. Just throw a few handfuls. Oh, and there is one that is mostly in the background, try to make sure that he gets some food as well.” He presses the bag of pellets into Percival’s free hand before he enters the habitat and pushes the wheelbarrow towards the cave. A few mooncalves come to him to sniff on the hay, but they quickly move along when they hear the rustling of the food. Working in the habitat is much easier when he doesn’t have to keep an eye on the wheelbarrow to make sure that the mooncalves don’t steal anything from it. Newt lets the old bedding disappear with a flick of his wand, clears out the cave with an Aguamenti and a drying spell before he scatters the fresh hay. He pushes the wheelbarrow back towards the habitat’s border, watches the mooncalves stretching their long necks to catch the food that Percival is throwing them. He pats a few of the heads that turn towards him. “Did you notice that this one is pregnant?”, he asks. “Give her three more weeks, and we’ll have a little addition stumbling around.” Newt scratches the mooncalf behind the ear before he leaves the habitat.  
  
“Is that your aim, breeding creatures?”, Percival asks and puts the empty bucket back into the wheelbarrow.  
Newt takes his time while they walk on. “Not at all. Breeding is far too complicated. I’d have to settle on a proper farm, focus on one kind of creature and so on. I prefer my case for the time being and take the pregnancy as a compliment that my creatures feel comfortable enough in their habitats. Just leave the wheelbarrow here, we only need the grain mixture for the diricawls.” The meadow is a green as always. A few billywigs fly around looking for smaller insects to hunt, and there is a small lizard is lying on a tree trunk in the sun. A rustling noise makes them stop. While Percival is still looking around, Newt has already knelt down. And just as expected—it takes only a few seconds, until Harold comes running towards him. He sniffs around and keeps his distance when Percival bends down towards them.  
“That’s your niffler? What was it, Harry?”  
“Harold”, Newt corrects. “You can say hi, if you want. Offer him a finger.”  
Percival stretches his hand out. “Hello Harold”, he says. “It’s nice to meet you.” The niffler peeks out from behind Newt’s leg, and then his curiosity gains the upper hand. He sniffs at the fingers. “Maybe I should have asked, but I brought a dragot”, Percival says, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coin. Small and golden, and as shiny as one that has just been polished at a bank. Percival holds it between two fingers and offers it to Harold who lets out a string of excited quacks before he quickly grabs the coin between his paws and runs off with it. Newt answers the confusion on Percival’s face with a grin, grabs takes the box with the diricawl food he’d set aside for a moment, and gets up again. “He always disappears this quickly to make it more difficult for me to chase him. My letter opener, cutlery, paper clips … He steals all sorts of things, and he knows I don't like it.”

Percival laughs, accepts the hand that is offered and pulls himself up again. He takes a small step forwards to steady himself. He smiles up at Newt. There is a little scar on the chin, probably from shaving. He hadn’t noticed it until now, and Newt lets his eyes linger on it for a second before he remembers that he’s still holding a box of maggots and grain in one hand. They really should go feed the diricawls, but Percival’s fingers are wrapped around his other hand. Tomorrow morning, there will be a portkey waiting at MACUSA; it will be a few days before they see each other again. Newt swallows, and before he can think any further, he bends forward and presses his mouth against Percival’s. It’s soft and warm and he can feel the grip on his hand tighten before the moment is over and his soulmate is staring at him. Newt breathes out. Maybe he should have asked first, or maybe he should apologise for being so bold. Or so clumsy, or for the timing, or-.  
Percival lets their noses bump together, his lips brushing against the corner of Newt’s mouth and stopping on his cheek. “Now that that’s finally settled”, he whispers close to Newt’s ear, and for a second his voice seems unsteady, “I think there are still a few creatures to feed.”  
“Yeah”, Newt breathes out, and he can feel his face heating up. He is grateful that Percival doesn’t comment on it, only lets go of his hand and wraps an arm around him.  
  
“Do you want to hold one?”, he asks, lifts one of the young occamies and lets it slide over his arm.  
“Are you sure?”, Percival asks, sounds sceptical. He eyes the few rat bones one of the creatures has spit out.  
“We just fed them”, Newt says, “and as long as you don’t try to pet them, you should be okay. Just form a bowl with your fingers, yes. Okay, here you go.” He lets the creature he had been holding slide down into his soulmate’s hands. The occamy clicks her beak at them and slides over the wrists before curling up in his palms. Percival grins up at him, looks so proud that Newt feels like he could kiss him again. “If you want to put him back, we could see if we can find Dougal, and then we are done”, he says instead, throws the last rat towards the nest of the mother occamy. She catches it with ease. The young occamy in Percival’s arm lets out a protesting hiss when he’s being lowered into the nest again, and Newt smiles at the reptile’s unwillingness to leave Percival’s comfortably warm hands.  
  
They group of trees that Dougal has picked as his favourite is right next to the occamy nest. Pieces of bamboo are lying around, a few fwoopers are huddled up on one branch and are feeding on the large green ants trying to run past them.  
It’s Percival who sees the demiguise first. He’d been in the middle of a question about occamies when he suddenly stops mid-sentence. Newt turns around and Dougal is hanging right in front of them, staring at them with his large black eyes. He turns his head to get a better glimpse at Percival and blinks. Newt suppresses laughter when Percival reacts by blinking back.  
“Hi Dougal”, Newt says. “Did you have a good day? Percival has been helping me with my round today, and look, we have a snack for you.” He pulls out an apple slice, holds it into Dougal’s field of view and waits. The demiguise takes his time to remove one claw from the tree, grab the piece of fruit and put it into his mouth. He blinks again, chews slowly. “Have a good night Dougal”, Newt says and takes Percival’s hand. He lets their fingers run over the soft white fur before he takes a step back to let the demiguise eat in piece. “That’s my suitcase”, he says. “Thanks for coming with me.”  
“I have to thank you! It was more than I could have expected, very … well, very magical. And I don’t only mean the work you put into creating all of his. We haven’t even left yet, and I already want to go back.” There is a glint in Percival’s eyes that Newt knows all too well, and he feels both proud and relieved that he’s found someone, a soulmate, who accepts and at least partly understand his fascination with magizoology. He breaks into a gin.  
“You can help me do the feeding any time you feel like it”, he says. “I’ll make sure to leave the brains for you.” Percival only sighs, and Newt fumbles for his wand.  
  
The guest room has become so much of a home that it feels to see it without notes and books scattered on the desk. Newt sits down on the bed, looks up at the photographs of the Graves family dogs. He’s promised his mum to sleep at their place rather than at his own flat in London. They don’t know anything about his soulmark yet. At first he hadn’t been too sure about staying in New York or staying with Percival, and even after that initial insecurity, everything apart from telling his family in person had seemed like a bad idea. And now he’s going back home for the first time in a while. It's the perfect opportunity, he only needs to find the right time and words.   
“Tea?”, Percival asks from the door. “I’m not sure about the amount of milk, I hope I got it right.” He points to the nightstand, and the tray that had been floating in front of him gently settles there without spilling a drop.  
Newt takes a first sip and burns his tongue. He grimaces, turns towards Percival. “Not bad.” Percival hums, folds his legs into a few different positions until he has found one he feels comfortable in. He kisses Newt’s cheek like that’s something he’s done countless times already, and reaches for his own tea.  
Newt lets a finger run over his soulmate’s knee. He can still feel his skin prickle, but he doesn't want to put his tea down again. Kissing, proper kissing, can wait. They will have plenty of time when Newt comes back. He'd almost thought of it as 'home', he realises and takes a deep breath. They should talk about that. When there's time. As soon as he is ... back again. “When is your birthday?”, he asks to distract himself, suddenly remembering the photograph he’d found in the morning. He shrugs at Percival’s confused glance. “I was just wondering.”  
“17th of October. '90.”  
“Mine is in May.” Newt reaches for a biscuit. “It’s -”  
“22nd of May 1897”, his soulmate interrupts. “I read it in your MACUSA file.” Newt laughs because of course there is a file, and of course Percival has read it. He probably knows it by heart. “And I already decided on your present.”  
“No suitcase”, Newt says quickly. “I’m serious, don’t you dare give me a suitcase. I already have one, and it’s good enough.”  
“That’s debatable”, Percival counters teasingly, and for a second Newt thinks about shoving him off the bed, but then he decides that it’s not worth it. He takes a biscuit, dunks it into his tea.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people!
> 
> Once upon a time, I complained to my Slytherin friend about a lack of new fanfictions in the Harry Potter fandom. "Why yes", she said, "they are all writing Fantastic Beasts, why don't you read that instead?" I told her I couldn't because I hadn't watched the film, but then I ended up looking into the fandom anyway. And when we met for a DVD evening a few days later, I had already read enough to joke: "There are so many terrible fanfics, we should try to write a good one."  
> We thought it might be fun to go for a combination of a lovely (yet often badly written) trope and a popular (almost over-used) pairing: Gramander soulmates! We quickly started to develop a plot, and when I found out that the name 'shortbread' was still available on ao3, there were no excuses left not to upload at least the first chapter ...  
> And now, 323 days later (I counted), I'm proudly presenting the last chapter, and I'm very emotional about it (I'm not sorry).  
> So thank you to the Slytherin half of this account for starting it all, and for encouraging me to keep writing when I wanted to just leave it unfinished and turn to other projects instead.
> 
> Just like every other fanfiction, this one would be nothing without its readers! I might be the one writing it, but thanks to you this fanfiction is not one of the many that spend their time comment-, kudos- and bookmarkless somewhere in the depths of ao3.  
> I know how easy it is to just silently consume the content on this website, and I'm still amazed at the amount of feedback this fanfiction has received so far, be it comment, kudos, bookmark or one of the many hits.  
> My thanks and my love go out to all of you, to the quiet readers just as much as to those of you who left feedback! I take it as a compliment and feel very honoured that so many of you came back over and over again.
> 
> Originally planned as one long story, we have decided to split this fanfiction into two parts. Although I have already created the document for Part Two, I will take a break from posting. I'd like to have a few chapters finished, and there are quite a lot of real life events coming up in May/June, so I decided to start posting again on July 1st.  
> Bookmark the series I created, mark the day in your calendars – or don't and get the lovely surprise of a new, almost unexpected fanfiction on the 1st of July! :)
> 
> Now that this introduction has turned into a little fanfic of its own, let's get back to what's most relevant: the new chapter!  
> I am very proud of it because  
> 1\. The chapter is the last one. I finished a fanfic!  
> 2\. This fanfiction now surpasses the word count of 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets'!  
> 3\. The chapter is a great cliffhanger because it's so delightfully uneventful (something that, it turned out, is not as easy to write as you'd think).  
> The next chapter, the first one of Part Two, will be more exciting, I can already promise that! (And if you've been paying attention, you already know whose point of view the next fanfic will begin with :)).
> 
> I might not have written a word of Part Two yet, but I am already looking forward to coming back to share more of Graves and Newt with you all! The first chapter will come online on July 1st.
> 
> Lots of love and thank you all so much for reading!  
> shortbread

**25**

 

Although getting ready for an early shift is always a quiet affair, the knowledge that Newton is in England makes it seem even quieter. A first strong coffee in the kitchen to get his mind running, and when Percival can finally convince himself that it’s time to go have a shower, he still stops in the hallway. It’s strange not to see his soulmate’s coat and jacket hanging at their usual spot, and he wonders how much time exactly Newton will spend abroad. There are not only the consulting and the presentations, there is also the research part of the job. Observing creatures, taking them into his suitcase and setting them free again once the research is done or their wounds have healed. If he wanted to, Newton could probably stay away for weeks. Percival shakes off a yawn and moves away from the thought into the bathroom.  
He wraps himself into his towel and a warming charm, opens the window. While the steam disappears from the surfaces, he twirls the brush around the shaving bowl, starts lathering with quick, practiced movements. The white foam is a contrast to his dark hair, and Percival tries to imagine what he’ll look like once he’s old and grey. Ten years, maybe a few more, until his hair will have changed colour. Percival breathes in and flinches. The sharp peppermint oil burns in his nose, makes the thoughts disappear again. Near the ears, the foam has already started to dry. If he doesn’t want to re-lather, he’ll have to start shaving, and if he doesn’t want to perform at least one Episkey, he should focus.  
  
It's such a slow change that it had taken him a few days to realise that spring is coming. He’s become so used to the cold that the dates on the calendar meant less than the clouds hanging over the city, but now things are finally changing. The grass in Central Park might still be pale, but Percival doesn't have to tie his scarf as tightly, and the air doesn't feel as biting on his way to the morning shift. Even if it's early, he doesn't want to risk anything by just apparating from his front door. In a city as big as New York, there could always be someone watching, and he really doesn't mind the short walk from his flat to the apparition point. It gives him a few moments alone, time to prepare for what is to come. Picquery has called for yet another meeting to discuss changes of laws, and although he’s not even at his desk yet, Percival already doubts he’ll be able to leave it for lunch. It will be a long day, but that’s okay. There is nobody waiting at home anyway.

Graves nods at the witch who oversees the apparition room, and the person who appears right next to him, a colleague he thinks works in Magical Transportation. Together, they step out into the large entrance hall. He checks the time on his watch. Right on time. Despite the early hour, MACUSA is already swarming with people. Some people are getting their wands cleaned, others are already balancing folders and coffee cups in their hands.  
“Good morning”, Queenie Goldstein says, almost bumps into him on the way to the lift. She is carrying a purse and her wand in one hand, a paper bag from a bakery in the other, and she smiles at Percival when he holds the lift's door open for her.  
“Newt is in England now, isn't he?”, she asks, and Percival isn’t sure if it’s politeness or the attempt to have a conversation.  
“Today’s the presentation. I’m sure he’ll do fine.” He remembers the mock presentation in his living room, and Newton’s confusion when he’d realised that not everybody mght know how to approach a hippogriff.  
Miss Goldstein nods, still smiling. They have reached the floor of the Wand Permit Office now, and the goblin opens the door for her. “I’m sorry my sister and I couldn’t accept your invitation”, she says. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe she’s read his mind. She leaves the lift, gives him a last smile. “Have a good day, Director.”  
“Have a good day, Miss Goldstein”, he replies. “And I’m sure we could try to find a date for dinner when Newton is back in New York.” She raises the bakery bag in her hand to say goodbye, he nods, and then the lift moves upstairs again.  
  
The morning post arrives when Percival is in the middle of reading the documents that Collins had put together, a first draft for new laws regarding the treatment of magical creatures. Rupert agrees to drop the newspapers and letters in exchange for a piece of biscuit before he disappears again, probably to spend the day at MACUSA’s owlery. Percival puts the mail into the desk’s top drawer, glances at the clock and goes back to reading. He wishes he could talk to Newton just to get an opinion from somebody who know more about magizoology, its possibility and its limits. But Newton is not available, not even via fire-call, and it’s too late to ask the British Ministry for the opportunity to talk to one of their experts. Percival sighs. As much as he dislikes it, he’ll have to trust Collins’s judgement. Roughly an hour until they’ll talk about it, until Picquery will decide which suggestions to accept and which ones to reject. It’s not even enough time to do both drink another coffee and read the document. He waves the door closed, casts a silencing charm on his office and concentrates on the idea of lifting the ban on the breeding and keeping for the creatures the Ministry of Magic labels as harmless. It’s nice to recognise some species from the afternoon he’d spent in Newton’s case. Percival underlines bowtruckles as they are the only ones that seem to be relevant in regards to Magical Security, finds a piece of parchment and starts to scribble his thoughts down. There would have to be a registration system similar to the one the Wand Permit Office uses, they’d have to discuss who is entitled to keep which kind of creature and why. It all sounds like a lot of work for Collins’s department, but if he’s being honest, that’s the last thing Graves is concerned about.

“Would you like to have lunch with me?”, Picquery asks as they are leaving the conference room, and Percival knows it’s more of an order than a question. “Director Graves is staying for lunch”, she tells her secretary, opens the door to her office. Large windows and dark furniture, a single peacock feather and a roll of parchment are lying on the desk. Picquery nods towards a seat before sinking down into her own large chair. “Are you happy with the way the meeting went?”, she asks.  
“We will have to wait and see in how far today’s decision will influence our community, but of course I hope that changing the laws will result in fewer activities on the black market”, Percival answers, hopes that’s enough for her. Two house elves bring salad and sandwiches as well as a large jug of water. Picquery thanks them and starts to arrange food on her plate.  
“I don’t know if you read up on everything that happened while you were … indisposed”, she glances at him, “but there have been suggestions to change more than just the beast laws.” Percival unfolds a napkin, places it in his lap. He isn’t quite sure what Picquery means. Grindelwald’s doings have led to many discussions: security, transportation, border control …  
She sips on her drink. “Rappaport’s Law, and the idea that it’s obsolete. Although nobody has mentioned anything in my presence, I know that people talk about the … possibilities that would come with abolishing our law” Picquery tries her best at sounding neutral, but Percival can tell that she doesn't like the topic. Of course she doesn't. Rappaport's Law, the strict differentiation of magical people and NoMajs, is one of the principles their society is built on, and it's worked just fine for over one hundred years.  
“Why should we get rid of the law? Who’d even come up with that idea?”  
Picquery sighs. “Mister Scamander, of course.” Percival stops chewing for a moment, looks at her. Why would Newton want to change one of America’s fundamental laws, one that protects the whole wizarding community? They could have talked about it, but Newton had never mentioned that he doesn’t agree with the American way of keeping the magical and the non-magical community separated. Picquery seems to realise that Graves doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and he is glad that he doesn’t have to ask for an explanation. “As you know, Scamander mainly talked about beasts”, she says, “but also felt the need to share that British NoMajs and wizards are allowed to marry, and children with magical abilities are welcomed into their school regardless of their family background. And since he’s played such an important role defeating Grindelwald, people are inclined to listen to his ideas.” She tilts her head, looks at him, and Percival knows that he’s supposed to have an opinion on the matter, but all he can think is that he’s glad his boss doesn’t know Scamander is his soulmate, and that there will be a lot to discuss once Newton comes back from his trip to England. “Director?” She wants him to talk now. A piece of parchment slides over the desk, and the peacock feather dips itself into an inkpot. Taking notes on everything he says, that’s something Madame President does in most of their private meetings. In the beginning, when he’d been newly appointed Director, it had felt strange to know that she’d use his words in order to formulate her own arguments in meetings with other people, but by now, Graves has grown used to the scratching of the quill.

"Director Graves?", Picquery asks again, sounds almost impatient now.  
He blinks, tries to focus. He doesn’t really want to discuss this, not when it’s Newton’s suggestion they are talking about, and not when he hasn’t had any time to actually form an opinion. He sips on his water, clears his throat just to have one more second. “With all due respect to Mister Scamander’s enthusiasm regarding the rights of creatures,”, he then starts, and it feels strange to speak so formally about someone he’s said goodbye to with kisses and a smile, “abolishing Rappaport’s Law would be too much of a risk. It’s a means of protection against general chaos and witch hunts. There are enough NoMajs who want to fight magic, we really don’t need them to know we actually exist.” He thinks of the Second Salemers. Just because MACUSA has managed to obliviate a lot of suspects, they can’t be sure that nobody has escaped them. Besides, NoMajs tell so many stories about witchcraft and magic that the forming of a new group of fanatics doesn’t seem unlikely. “I don’t think it’s very wise to allow NoMajs to enter our community, but if that really is the norm in England, I’m sure their authorities keep a close eye on the relationships between NoMajs and the wizarding community. The Statute of Wizarding Secrecy is the same for all of us, after all.”  
Picquery looks at him, and Percival can’t tell if he’s delivered the kind of answer she’d wanted to hear. She nods, slowly. “Could you get me information on how exactly the British system works, Director? Personally, I do not wish to change our laws, but I want to be prepared for questions, and for the case that MACUSA should vote in favour. We’ll be busy with the beast law anyway, you can take your time.”  
“I’ll be in London in a few weeks”, Percival says. “Conference on International Security. I could talk to the British colleagues. Would that be early enough, April?”  
“That’s enough, yes, thank you. The conference … Are you looking forward to it?”  
Percival shrugs. “I hope we’ll have a few productive days, and I'd like to have the time to talk to colleagues who visited New York earlier this year. I'm not sure if I'd go so far to say I'm looking forward to what's a business trip, though.”  
Picquery shows one of her rare smiles and offers her hand. “I’m glad you’ve settled back in at your department, Director”, she says. “Thank you for your time today, and until our next meeting.”  
“Thank you, Madame President”, Percival replies, the pressure of her handshake as firm as always. “Have a good day.” He collects his parchment and gets up. The door opens for him, he looks at his watch. Time for a new stack of documents and an afternoon coffee.  
  
Most of his aurors have arrived by the time Graves comes back to their floor. He nods at Marshall and Fisher and takes a detour through Jackson’s office to coordinate their holidays. Back in his own office, he reheats the cup of coffee and unfolds the _Time-Turner_. On the front page, there’s a picture of his Mexican colleague along with an article about the export of fruit and vegetables. Local quodpot news, the weather, advertisements … He scans the international news for mentions of Grindelwald and is relieved when he can’t find anything. Apparently, the USSR's prisons are save enough. Once the security conference in London is over, he’ll have to give an interview about the situation. His face and name will be in the news, will be noticed by Grindelwald’s followers, people who know that he’s been used as a puppet. Maybe Percival should improve the safety precautions at home. Another layer of passwords maybe, especially at the terrace door. He’ll need to look up spells to strengthen the glass. And he’ll have to talk to Newton. Because if people are coming after him to take revenge, and the figure out that he has a soulmate, they might– The scalding hot coffee in his mouth brings Percival back to the reality of his afternoon office. He waves a window open, puts the newspaper down and looks at the little Magical Exposure Clock on his desk. _Level 1: Low Threat_. There's nothing to worry about.  
  
_We are looking forward to welcoming you into the Junior Auror Training Programme. Please be present at the MACUSA Headquarters on April 13 1927, 9.30 am. Attached, you find a detailed schedule for the day. Sincerely …_  
The ink of the signature dries quickly. The parchment folds itself and slips into the envelope. He puts it into the small basket for outgoing mail. A house elf will collect it later, and if the owlery is quick, the new colleagues will get the news at breakfast.  
Percival stretches his back, unlocks the top drawer and takes out the letters that Rupert had brought in the morning. One of them is from England, the expensive paper watermarked with the Ministry’s logo. He doesn’t even need to open it to know that it’s the official invitation to the conference. It’s the usual wording, the usual list of hotels, the usual schedule of meetings, lunch, more meetings and coffee breaks. Theseus Scamander’s wavy signature at the bottom of the page makes Percival realise that they are almost family now. Of course his private life shouldn’t have any impact on his work, but it’s still nice that his soulmate is related to Theseus of all people. He’s one of Percival’s favourite international colleagues, certainly a gifted auror, and apparently, he’s not too bad of a brother either. Maybe he is looking forward to the conference more than he thought.  
Although there is still much to do, it might be better to bring the answer formula down to the post office to make sure that it gets to Scamander right away. Percival doesn’t want to use one of his aurors as runner, they all have more than enough to do. He takes his empty mug, the letter for Scamander and the ones for the junior aurors, locks the office behind himself.  
  
“We have a post portkey to the United Kingdom at six tonight, if that’s not too late, Director?”, the witch says. “It will be at the Ministry before midnight local time.”  
Percival nods, watches her press a stamp on the envelope. “And then I have these, all national.”  
“Tomorrow morning”, she confirms what he’d already suspected, tips the letters with her wand and directs them to a box in the corner. She writes something on a piece of parchment. “I’ll send the confirmation slip to your department as soon as I have the owl numbers for the national mail. Won’t take more than an hour.” A final polite smile and she’s turning towards the next person in the queue.  
Coming into the coffee kitchen, Percival blinks a few times. Goldstein is standing at one of the tables, laughing, with Kerehoma next to her. Apparently they’ve managed to organise their meetings without help from a third party. Goldstein grows quiet when she sees him, clears her throat. “Director”, she greets. If it wasn’t for coffee, Percival would feel sorry for interrupting their meeting.  
Kerehoma and Goldstein are standing close to each other, but still far enough apart that people might think them good friends instead of soulmates. She seems tense, her discomfort is almost palpable, while he seems much more relaxed, stirs in his mug. “Morning, Director. Good afternoon for you, I guess.” He smiles.  
“Good afternoon, Goldstein, Kerehoma.” Percival gets the coffee grinder to work, rinses out his mug. He unfolds one of the filters, uses a heating spell to bring water to the boil. Behind him, Kerehoma is talking, and Percival does his best not to listen. He looks down into the afternoon light of the city where people look like tiny dots. Wizards, witches, NoMajs. Percival thinks about the documents on his desk that he still has to work through, and his thought wander to his lunch with Picquery, about Newton who had apparently caused quite a stir with all his talk about British rules. It will take a long time and a lot of nerves to sort that out again. Behind him, the coffee has stopped dripping.  
“I’ll see you in London?”, Percival asks, puts the used filter into a bin. Kerehoma nods. His hand is lying on the table, close to the half-empty mug, close to Goldstein’s fingers but not quite touching them.  
“We had such a good time with our colleagues, I can hardly wait for London”, Kerehoma jokes, and Percival casts a quick stabilizing stabilising spell before he spills his coffee on the floor.  
He sees the corners of Goldstein’s mouth twitch. “Miss Goldstein”, he addresses her, and she straightens her back, looks like she wants to say something, probably to defend herself. “Enjoy your break, take your time.” With that, Percival is out the door.

The material he has on international law in his office at home turns out to be as useless as the books a house elf had found for him at MACUSA’s library. Security, transportation, even the distribution of mail in particularly remote places – the books contain a lot of interesting facts about the different wizarding communities, but nothing about marriage laws in specific countries. Graves sighs. He can't wait for Newton to come back. Besides, it would probably be better to take the official route. Approved documents will be more impressive than hand-written notes, and MACUSA would hardly accept someone's soulmate as a source for information on a subject he's not an expert on. Percival flips through his agenda, counts the days. He will have to contact the British authorities, and he should probably tell them now instead of at the beginning of April. Besides, the Ministry of Magic might need some time to discuss which information to share. It really is better to give them a head start instead of just turning up at the conference in a few weeks and surprising Theseus Scamander with his request. He takes a sip of his evening tea and sharpens a new quill.


End file.
